


Like Flying

by nicKnack22



Series: Cornerstone [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Domestic, F/M, Fallen Castiel, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 107,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But with a more permanent destination:  Cas falls and the universe shifts.  Sam and Dean have to figure out exactly what to do with a human Cas, and all three struggle to live a more normal life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost and Found

They’re on I-95 somewhere outside of Charlotte. It’s the type of summer day that, in the past, would have merited windows down, radio blasting, Dean goading Sam into joining his off key rendition of “Born to Run.” Now though, the windows are down and the June sun is shining, and they’re sailing down miles of open road, yet the tension in the Impala is so thick that Sam feels slightly suffocated.

He’s trying to read—trying being the operative word—since he’s read the same sentence six times without absorbing a damn thing. He blames Dean, and keeps glancing over at his brother with barely contained frustration and concern. It’s been three weeks of this—stony silence, furrowed brows, and short tempered outbursts—and it’s getting worse every day. Sam’s pretty sure that he’s gonna go crazy if it doesn’t stop soon. He’s tried subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to ask his brother what the hell is wrong, but all he’s gotten in return are stony faced shut-downs followed by an increase in his surly attitude—typical Dean responses to emotional turmoil—nothing like repressing your feelings at any cost, including Sam’s sanity and patience.

Dean is tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel of the Impala completely off-tempo with the music. Sam will be the first one to attest that his brother can’t sing to save his life, but he can rock the dashboard perfectly (he’s like an air guitar champion). What Dean is doing right now is not drumming to the music; it’s not a loving caress or weird commune with his Baby that makes Sam mildly uncomfortable. This is an angry rhythm: it’s never a good sign when Dean takes his feelings out on the car. He’s distracted, glaring at the highway, and he’s alternatively pounding against the wheel and clutching it in a choke-hold. 

Sam is not an idiot—whatever Bobby or Dean might say to the contrary—so it’s not exactly a struggle for him to put two-and-two together and realize that Dean’s epic bad-mood directly corresponds with Cas’ disappearance. They had finally seemed to be getting things back on track after the apocalypse, Sam was back from hell, he had his soul again, he and Dean were falling into sync, back to saving people, hunting things—but with more empathy on Sam’s part. Cas was still engaged in a civil war in heaven, and both brothers knew that is was taking a toll on him; however much he tried to hide it. It wasn’t unusual for Cas to have prolonged absences, and Dean and Sam would throw themselves into the hunt. Dean worried, Sam did too, but Dean’s silences were sullen, he was tense whenever Cas disappeared (all short-temper and increased alcohol consumption and stubborn shoulders) and it would build steadily until the angel showed up again, when Dean would return to snarky smiles and gruff humor. Sam didn’t push, didn’t bring it up: he wasn’t stupid, he knew that Dean worried about Cas—the two seemed to have grown closer, while Sam was…away—and this pattern of tension and release was one that they just fell into, Sam was willing enough to roll with it, but, well, things are different now. He shoots Dean a look and frowns, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

Three weeks ago Cas sensed what Dean would call—under better circumstances—“a great disturbance in the force,” in fact, that’s what he had called it at the time, when Sam had walked into the motel room just in time to see the angel vanish. They had packed up their duffels and left shortly thereafter, but not before Dean had surreptitiously taken one last look around the room—as if hoping that Cas’ errand would be a quick one and he would pop back in and join them…no such luck…they’d headed to Louisiana—Bobby had tipped them off to some reports of what seemed to be ghoul activity near New Orleans. All things considered it was a pretty simple case: a few days of research and two quick, efficient head shots had taken care of the problem. They’d rolled out of town leaving some thankful (and thankfully still alive) citizens in their wake. All in a day’s work, and all that. It was the type of successful hunt that would typically put them in a nice euphoric state of mind, and you’d think that everything would have gone up from there, right? Wrong. Sam shakes his head and snorts, because legitimately, that had been where everything had gone to hell (though, thankfully not literally). 

Sam did some research and clued into a vampire nest in Florida: the boys had set out pretty quickly. Dean had a kind of mania about him—he wanted to take out as many monsters as he could—it reminded Sam a little bit of their dad, of himself, but it was more directionless—Sam’s not totally sure that’s the right word—the hunting wasn’t for revenge and it wasn’t compelled by justice, it was a distraction, more than anything else, which, hey, they’d all done that before—easier to bury your feelings when you’re fighting for your life against a crazed ghost or a bloodthirsty Wendigo—but he didn’t like the look on his brother. Sam was more or less just shrugging it off at that point, didn’t think much of it, figured Dean would just process whatever was bothering him out through a combination of burying it deeply, ignoring it completely, and beheading a couple of vamps…that was standard operating procedure for Dean, and Sam was kind of counting on him getting it out of his system during the hunt in Florida, but, if anything, he had seemed more agitated afterwards. He’d patched up his wounds and stormed out of the motel with a scowl; getting drunk apparently didn’t help at all, because he still looked like a damn storm cloud when he came back at three in the morning. 

Sam was starting to realize that something serious was going on with Dean, but it wasn’t until the next afternoon that he discovered exactly what it was, and he’d basically kicked himself for being oblivious (through, to be fair, probably not as oblivious as his brother).

They’d been in the Impala, packed up and heading to Georgia, and Dean was tapping the wheel, in time with the Stones, but he had a distant look in his eyes and he’d been far too quiet all morning. So Sam, being the awesome little brother that he was, had tried to break the silence. He’d meant the question to be innocuous, but it sure as hell turned out to be anything but. A simple, “So have you heard from Cas lately?” and Dean’s jaw clenched, he had the wheel in a death grip, and he darted a glance at Sam before fixing his eyes on the road again, “No.” 

To someone who didn’t know Dean, it would have seemed like nothing, to Sam it spoke volumes: he was freaked for and about Cas. 

Sam licked his lips, trying for earnest, “You try praying to—”

“He’s not answering,” Dean’s response was brusque, and he refused to meet Sam’s concerted stare.

Sam wasn’t sure who he was more concerned about in that moment. Cas going unresponsive was not unheard of…but with Dean? Cas wouldn’t go MIA unless there was reason and that was…well, it was troubling, especially given the current state of heaven’s politics. Shit. Sam was worried about Cas, but he could do better focusing on Dean, the more immediate problem.

“I’m sure that he’s fine, Dean,” he tried in his most conciliatory voice, puppy eyes and all.

“Drop it, Sam,” Dean had practically barked, effectively cutting off any and all future conversation on the subject. He cranked up the radio to drown out any further ‘touchy-feely’ stuff that Sam had prepared, and that had been that. 

So Sam watched Dean, and Dean became more agitated by the day. Sam knew that Dean was still praying, though he never actually caught him in the act, but he could tell because there was this look of utter dejection on Dean’s face every time they went unanswered. He took pains to hide it, but Sam knew his brother well, and he could see how much Cas’ absence was eating him up inside. Not to mention that he was still on this whole “let me take out my frustration and fear by killing as many monsters as humanly possible,” and every day doing a more accurate impression of a severely pissed of grizzly bear. 

Sam sent up his own prayer when they hit the two week mark, in the parking lot when he was meant to be getting them dinner:

“Cas, man, we’re worried about you. Dean especially he’s…well, he’s freaked out. It would be really awesome if you could just…just let us know that you’re okay. Please, be okay.”

He’d closed his eyes, waiting for the sound of flapping of wings that precipitated Cas’ appearance, but…nothing. Sam’s mouth was a thin line, his brow furrowed as he scanned the starry sky. He hadn’t really expected Cas to answer, not if he wasn’t getting in touch with Dean, but still, it was worth a shot. 

He sighed, “Where are you, man?” without real hope for a reply before grabbing the food and heading inside. 

It’s a week later now; the tension between Sam and Dean has only grown thicker. Dean still refuses to discuss or acknowledge that he’s worried. The shitty thing about all of this, and the most probable reason that Dean is channeling his rage into trying to achieve some hunting record, is that they can’t really do anything to help Cas right now: they don’t know where he is, and though the universe at large knows that they would fight tooth and nail on his team, they haven’t the faintest clue what the fuck is even going on, and it’s driving them slowly crazy. Sam is concerned about the angel and his brother, not to mention what the hell is going to happen to the world if Cas has lost his battle against Raphael…they stopped one apocalypse—Sam remembers swan diving into the Pit and shakes his head sharply—he would really rather not do that again. The chances of them surviving are slim to none, and, seriously—he glances at Dean’s clenched jaw and rigid profile—they deserve a break…all of them, including Cas. 

They grab lunch an hour later. Sam eats his salad and shoots apprehensive looks at Dean, who is glaring at his peach pie, “I’m not a damn zoo animal, Sam,” he snaps when he catches Sam watching. Sam holds up his hands in surrender. No reason to further irritate the mildly rabid older brother sitting across from him. God forbid he tries to express some subtle concern. Dean is making a face like he regrets wishing that Sam had his soul back, and though Sam knows that he doesn’t mean it, per se, the fact that that has even crossed his mind marks how desperately miserable and frustrated he is. Sam feels for him, and he’s glad that he does, because somebody needs to watch out for his brother, especially if Cas isn’t around...he’s isn’t really sure what the deal is between his Dean and the angel. Ever since he got back from hell they’d seemed, closer, and farther apart, something was different, there was tension between them, and Sam is not sure that either of them had really figured it out themselves, and now, with Cas gone, he wonders if they will, or if he’ll ever know the full story there, because there definitely is one, or, at least, the beginning of one...

They pay and hit the road. Dean goes back to brooding, he cranks up the Metallica, which Sam supposes is meant to be “soothing,” he rolls his eyes, but goes with it. He’s back to reading the book that he borrowed from Bobby, it’s about archangels, and he’s hoping to find something that might help them or Cas, preferably both, but it’s slow going between translating on the fly, hunting, and being distracted by Dean’s attitude and his own growing worry. He sighs again. Dean glowers at him and shakes his head, like Sam is the annoying one, which is just so unfair right now. 

It’s a half hour later when Sam starts to notice that the weather is turning. 

“Looks like a storm,” he mutters.

“Just our fucking luck,” Dean returns. 

Impromptu mid-afternoon thunderstorms are not unheard of in the Carolinas in June, so it’s not something that really registers as being strange at first. Maybe it would have if they weren’t otherwise preoccupied, maybe it wouldn’t, and Sam’s never quite able to figure that one out. It’s only five minutes later, when the sky is purple laced with venomous green along the horizon, and the radio starts to go on the fritz, garbled music (and then garbled speech when they switch to AM to try to figure out what’s going on).

“God damn it,” Dean mutters scowling at the dials as he tries to get frequency. 

Sam attempts to pull up the weather on his phone, “There’s no signal,” he affirms, which is…troubling, “this looks like a hurricane.”

“Fuck,” Dean growls. He looks pissed, ready to go toe-to-toe with the weather if necessary. Sam has the presence of mind to start formulating a list of what the hell could cause this: weather deity, angels, demons, because whatever this storm is, it is not natural, not by a long shot. Hail starts to drum on the hood of the Impala, thunder rolls in the distance. 

“Dude, what do you—?” Sam begins to ask what Dean thinks is going on and what their plan of attack should be, but he’s cut off sharply.

Thunder growls again, but this time, this time, it’s accompanied by a white hot fork of lightening that strikes across the high way, silhouetting what looks like the figure of a man at the point where it touches the ground. 

“Jesus!”

“Holy shit!”

Dean swerves so hard—turning the Impala with a screech of rubber on wet asphalt—that Sam is slammed hard into the door with the force of the movement, and it’s a fucking miracle that they don’t hydroplane in the process. Before Sam can even ask what the hell Dean is doing, his brother has launched himself out of the car and across the street, skidding to his knees beside the fallen figure on the side of the road…a man in what appears to be a tan trench coat.

Sam feels his heart stutter to a stop, “Fuck.”


	2. Triage

Dean doesn’t feel the pavement scrape his knees when he hits the ground next to Cas. The angel is spread eagle on the side of the road. He’s pale and still, terrifyingly so, and his body is framed by a pair of gigantic wings imprinted in ash on the pavement, and slowly being erased by the falling rain. Dean knows what that means, he’s been around enough fucking douchebag angels to know what that means, but his brain won’t process the information because—No, god fucking damn it, no, no way that Cas is—.

“Cas,” his voice comes out as a desperate strangled rasp that he barely even recognizes. He reaches out to touch Cas’ throat, checking for a pulse: there’s nothing. Do angels have a heartbeat? Do they even need one? Shit. Dean’s mind races, going back to all the times that Cas has invaded his personal space, trying to remember whether or not Cas had been breathing: did he need oxygen? Was that a thing that angels needed? Because Cas’ chest, it isn’t moving. There are no vitals, and Dean’s eyes are drawn back to the wings marks. He shakes his head, refusing to acknowledge them, or what they mean. 

Instead, he cradles Cas’ face—his skin if wet from the rain and cool to the touch; despite being struck by fucking lightening five fucking minutes ago. Cas’ head lolls in Dean’s hands, his perpetual stubble rough on his fingers. But Dean, he tries to hold him steady, tries to will life back into his body. Stranger things have happened…though, in his experience, this approach has never yet worked…not on his mother or his father, not on Jo or Ellen, not on anyone he’s ever been stupid enough to care about…

“Cas, come on man,” he whispers, fiercely, “Can you hear me? Cas, hey, Cas, come on, wake up, come on.” There’s still no sign of life. Dean shakes him slightly, brushes his thumbs against Cas’ cheekbones (though what the hell that’s supposed to do, not even Dean knows) but he refuses to lose contact, “Damn it, Cas.”

“Dean—” Sam comes up behind him. His tone is soft and way too understanding, and Dean doesn’t turn to acknowledge his brother; he can’t stand to see Sam’s expression because he knows, without looking, that Sam has his grief stricken puppy eyes on, and there is no fucking way that Dean can deal with that right now.

So he focuses on Cas instead, keeping one hand on his jaw and ghosting the other over his coat, his torso. He can’t be gone—he just can’t be: not now, not like this, not dropped dead on the side of a fucking highway in fucking North Carolina. There’s not a wound from an angel blade, there’s no sign of injury except for the blood on Cas’ temple, and the scorched wing marks…but Cas can’t—he comes back—every fucking time, he’s a fucking angel a goddamn ball of celestial whatever light and shit—so he can’t just be dead for real, forever.

“Dean,” Sam tries again.

Dean turns his face up to the falling rain, biting his lip, trying not to cry, because he knows. He’s not so out of touch with reality that he can’t recognize what’s in front of his damn face, though he wishes he could. He breathes out, heavy, resigned, and shakes his head. 

“Damn it, Cas,” he feels the burning behind his eyes, and struggles to push it away, but it’s not working. He bows his head, closer to Cas’ unmoving torso. Sam comes up and places his hand on Dean’s shoulder, steadying him. 

Dean sighs, he’s pretty sure that a tear or two have leaked out, but at least with the storm you can’t tell what’s rain and what’s not. He presses his forehead to Cas’ just for a second, he supposes as a goodbye because he’s not sure what else to do, and he rubs his finger slow along Cas’ jaw and squeezes his shoulder with his other hand, about to pull back because they can’t stay here like this—they have to move—It’s in that moment—when Dean exhales and begins to step away, struggles to let go—that Cas’ eyes snap open and he sucks in a breath like he’s been drowning. 

“Holy crap!” Sam shouts and yanks his hand away from Dean’s shoulder, jumping back in surprise. If the situation were less dire, Dean would be teasing the hell out of him for that reaction. Instead, Dean redoubles his grip on Cas shoulder (maybe to keep him from vanishing? Maybe to reassure himself that Cas just came back from the dead…again?), and watches as the angel’s eyes dart around in unmistakable panic. He looks totally disoriented and mildly demented. Most worrisome of all? He’s screaming, but his voice is rough and hushed like he’s been shouting for years, and his vocal chords have been rubbed raw from it; he’s barely got a voice at all to give sound to whatever pain he’s clearly in.

“Cas, hey, Cas, look at me!” Dean tries to force him to focus. The hunter has barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief that Cas is alive (thank fucking god) before he’s trying to figure out what the hell has happened to him—in all seriousness, he will take this problem over the alternative. Sam comes over, squats down beside them, and reaches out to help stabilize Cas, but Cas flinches violently away from the touch, like it burns. Sam looks concerned and freaked simultaneously. Dean grabs Cas’ shoulder more firmly to hold him still, but Cas screams again—soundless and sharp—still with that wide eyed expression of fear. Dean realizes that the wetness on his fingers is not just rain; it’s blood. Fuck. Cas looks like he might pass out. 

“Sam, get the car,” he barks. Sam catches on almost immediately.

“Shit,” he says as he runs back across the highway.

Dean returns to Cas, muttering comforting nonsense and trying to get him to calm down because Dean isn’t sure that the angel even knows who he is—“Cas, hey, it’s okay,” it’s so fucking not, but Cas is breathing and blinking and presumably has a pulse and he feels warmer, so whether he needed those things before or not, he’s fucking doing them now, and that’s something at least—the wider implications of what those things mean is food for later thought. Dean needs to triage this, “Cas, do you know what happened? “ Cas is still lying prone, but the muscles under Dean’s hands are taught and rigid—if he had the strength, Dean’s pretty sure the angel would bolt. Cas can’t seem to calm down. Dean recognizes the terrified expression in his eyes, like a wild animal caught in a snare and badly hurt; he can’t tell which way is up or down and everything is a potential danger. When Dean attempts to move Cas into a sitting position, he flinches, hard, and then winces and groans, muttering gibberish that Dean can’t understand.

“Cas, hey! Look at me, look at me, Cas,” he uses his hand to force Cas’ eyes to meet his own, trying to ignore the fact that his very touch seems to be causing Cas more pain, “It’s me, okay? It’s Dean,” that seems to at least catch Cas’ attention, like he recognizes the word. His eyes stop their roving and lock onto Dean’s face—thank fuck for that. He brushes his hand against Cas’ cheek, through his hair, in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. Judging by Cas’ sharp recoil, he seriously misses the mark, but the angel is still staring at Dean’s face, so there’s that, “You know who I am, right?” Cas doesn’t respond verbally, but he does raise a shaking arm and latch a hand onto Dean’s shoulder, right over the handprint that’s seared into Dean’s skin. It seems like it’s costing Cas a monumental effort to do even that, but if that’s not the most telling answer to the question he could give...Dean feels a shiver when Cas fingers overlay the mark, even through the layers of clothing that separate skin from skin. He doesn’t think that Cas has touched the brand since he pulled Dean from the Pit. He shakes his head, but is unbelievably thankful because he had, for the barest moment, been terrified that it was Jimmy or something; that Cas had completely lost his memory or his mind. They can deal with this later, whatever this is, provided that the two biggest priorities are taken care of: Cas is alive, and he’s Cas—he knows Dean.

“That’s right,” he agrees, and, though it seems like it’s difficult for Cas to maintain his grip, he does so with a fervent intensity, like Dean is his one tether to the earth, and maybe he is, “I’m not gonna hurt you, Cas, okay? We’re gonna get you patched up, but we gotta move you, all right?” 

Sam pulls up and jumps out of the Impala. 

“Come on, help me get him up. You’re driving.”

They slowly lift Cas to his feet. He is unsteady and keeps simultaneously leaning into the boys and then cringing away, shuddering in pain, and shouting garbled words. 

“Enochian,” Sam mutters.

“What?!” Dean questions sharply.

Sam half shrugs, “He’s speaking in Enochian.”

“So!?” 

“So, we’re lucky he’s not at full mojo or we’d have no eyes and perforated ear drums.”

“Yeah, we should hit the lotto,” Dean snaps sarcastically, while Cas either prays or curses in fucking Aramaic or whatever. Dean glares at Sam for potentially turning Cas into a fucking study in angel injuries, and Sam looks appropriately chastened. Dean kind of wants to punch him anyway as an outlet for the feelings of stress, terror, and impotence in the face of Cas’ injuries.

They settle Cas into the back seat with his head lying on Dean’s lap. He’s started shivering, his eyes are tight closed.

Sam puts it in drive and stares pointedly, worriedly, at Dean in the rear-view mirror: “What the fuck do we do?” is written clearly on his features.

Dean glances down at Cas, pale, sweating, in severe pain.

“Should we take him to a hospital?” Sam asks, raised brows, clearly indicating the severity of the situation. 

Dean shakes his head, “Get us to the nearest motel.”

“Dean, he might need serious help.” Hospitals are a dangerous game; both of the Winchesters know that, have always known that—since their dad patched up Dean’s first broken arm in an empty parking lot outside of Omaha. “They might take you boys away,” John had said, cautioning his son to keep quiet while he set the bone (and Dean had). Hospitals for supernatural injuries are for extreme circumstances only—this is a desperate situation, but they have no idea what the damage is here. At the very least, Cas has been struck by lightning and spent a couple minutes dead on the side of the road—that’s a best case scenario—the boys are smooth talkers, they could maybe explain that if they needed to, but—Dean stares at Cas’ contorted face—he’s clearly physically messed up, and, on top of that, he could have a severe case of angel small pox, for all they know. Dean is aware that Sam is thinking all the same things. If Cas needs a hospital, they’ll take him. If that means saving his life, there’s no question, but they need to try to find out what’s going on—doctors are a last resort.

“Let’s just figure this out first,” Dean doesn’t have another, better, idea right now. The number one priority is to get Cas out of the open and patch him up as best they can, then, hopefully, get him to explain the situation. Though—Dean tries to wipe away the sweat and rain from Cas’ brow with a spare cloth lying in the backseat—it doesn’t seem like Cas will be able to offer any type of explanation any time soon. 

Sam clenches his jaw, and nods sharply. They’re in collusion on this one. He his hits the gas, and they peel away from the scorched remnants of wings on the highway. 

Dean spends the drive making calming noises at Cas, who is incoherent and clearly pained, while Sam guns it like a demon out of hell, casting pointed looks at Dean and Cas as he does so.

They hit the first motel after twenty minutes of Cas shaking and shivering, Dean humming “Hey Jude” and staring at Cas with a fierce mama bear protectiveness, and Sam shooting up a silent prayer to the universe or Cas’ absent father. Sam runs into the lobby and returns ten minutes later with the key to room 629. He grabs the pack of medic supplies that they keep in the trunk and together the brothers help Cas, carefully and slowly, from his position in the back seat and into the room. Dean keeps alternating between watching Cas like he’s afraid that he’s gonna drop dead again, and looking around to make sure no one is following them. If push came to shove, they could play it like Cas is wasted and they’re the good friends preventing drunk driving. Regardless, Dean is happy to lock the door behind them. 

They get Cas onto the bed. His eyes are unfocused, he’s slumped over. Dean hasn’t seen him this messed up since he traveled back from the 1970s.

“He’s in shock,” Sam observes, as Cas continues to quiver and sway. 

“Ya think?” Dean snaps, “Make yourself useful, and set up some wards, Sammy.” Sam, to his credit, immediately goes to salt the windows and doors, throw up an Enochian blood sigil or two, and lay out the hex bags—cover all their bases just to be sure. 

With that taken care of, Dean can focus on cataloguing Cas’ external injuries. He strips off the water-logged trenchcoat, noting the puncture mark on Cas’ left shoulder—that’s the source of the blood on Dean’s fingers and the red stain on Cas’ shirt. Dean’s best guess would be that the cut is from glass on the side of the road, it’ll be easy enough to stich up. The only other blood is coming from the scrape on Cas’ temple, probably from where he fell to the ground. That’s the simple stuff, it’s superficial: Dean’s seen worse, hell they’ve all had worse, but the level of shock and the way Cas keeps flinching means that something else is wrong. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, why have anything be simple or okay. The more worrying thing is that there are splotches of something on Cas’ back, leaking into his shirt, and Dean doesn’t think that it’s rainwater or gasoline. The leaking fluid means one thing to him: Burns. Fuck.

“Cas,” he tries gruff and gentle, attempting to sound calm while inside, he’s not gonna lie, he’s basically freaking out, “I’m gonna have to touch you, okay?”

Cas mutters something incoherent; Dean is going to have to take that as assent, because there’s no other way to do this. He pulls out his knife, “Just try to hold still,” he says, slicing through the button down, moving slowly, and being as careful as he can not to hurt Cas any more than is necessary, but that that doesn’t stop Cas from screaming out in agony when Dean pulls the fabric away. Sam finishes the protective mojo and turns just in time to see Cas’ back revealed—

“Holy shit,” he breathes. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean hisses in sympathy and mounting rage, internally vowing to rip apart whatever motherfucking douchebag did this. 

Cas’ back is a mess. It’s raw and flayed and fucking blistered to hell. The injuries go all the way down his arms and line his entire back except for a small space at the very base of his spine. 

Sam’s tilts his head, his face all screwed up with sympathy and some confusion, “Do those look kinda like—?”

“Fucking feathers,” Dean finishes because they do. Cas’ back is covered in third degree burns, that’s certain, but it looks almost like he’s gotten a skin graft already, all the ridges and divots and angry red marks make it seems like he’s been branded with wings—his own extended, incinerated wings, and how fucking messed up is that? Dean would lay money that the burns would match the ash marks on the highway perfectly. It appears that whoever put them there wanted them to hurt and wanted them to stick. Sadistic bastard. The wounds trail down his arms, lessoning in severity as they move away from his shoulders, so that his forearms and the backs of his hands are layered in feather shaped blisters. Dean swears he is going to shove an angel blade straight through the skull of whatever dickhead did this; the anger boils hot and heady in his veins. 

“So the wings on the highway—” Sam trails off, while Dean glares at the exposed flesh. 

“We’re gonna need some supplies,” Dean says, ignoring the implications of Sam’s statement.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees because they do. The boys pretty regularly deal with bullets, stab wounds, cuts, electrocution, punctures, impalement, scratches, poison, dislodged joints, broken bones, sprained muscles bruises, freakin bites—burns, though, burns not so much. Fire is a tool of their trade—it’s also how their mother died—so they have always had a healthy respect for it, and subsequently a marked lack of burns (unless you count hell, and the boys don’t, because hell is really its own separate entity, and, if you want to get into the type of injuries that they’ve acquired and inflicted in the Pit, Dean would have to write a multi-volume encyclopedia). 

“You take it,” Dean directs, because he can’t leave Cas, not like this. Sam nods in understanding, and Dean is so fucking grateful that Sam gets that he needs to stay with Cas. Cas is his family, his friend (maybe the only real one that Dean has ever had outside of his brother), and the angel is about as close to importance as Sammy in Dean’s life as anyone has ever gotten, but in a different way that Dean’s never looked at too closely. Cas dragged Dean’s ass out of hell, he rebelled against fucking heaven for him, he goddamn died three times for Dean, ditched his family, and-- Death would probably lecture Dean for having an inflated sense of self-importance on this one—was fucking fighting a civil war for him (yeah, Dean knows that it’s for the whole world and humanity and Cas’ siblings and all that shit, but Cas wouldn’t be in this position if Dean hadn’t dragged him through the trenches of the apocalypse resistance in the first place). Cas is Sam’s friend, too, but it’s always been different between the righteous man and the angel who raised him from perdition and Sam, attentive and intuitive, gets and respects Dean’s unwillingness to leave his side, maybe even understand the impetus behind it better than his brother. Dean will take Sam’s quick acquiescence, whatever it means, because he doesn’t want to think about how imperative it is to him that Cas pulls through this, and why.

“Give ‘em the old puppy eyes,” Dean offers, trying to lighten the mood. 

Sam gives him a smile, in response to the force levity, but sobers quickly before heading out, “I’ll be back soon.”

Dean nods. He has to do what he can for Cas while he waits for the pain meds, anti-biotics, gauze, and all that. 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he says to the facedown figure on the bed, not entirely sure that he can even hear him at this point, “but this is gonna hurt.” 

Dean bites his own lip, and pours whiskey over the cut on Cas’ shoulder. Cas screams, and Dean feels the sound like a knife in his own gullet. When he starts to stitch the wound with dental floss, Cas, thankfully, passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter two. I do hope that you enjoyed. I’ve currently got the rest of this fic outlined and it should be about twenty or so chapters, so I hope that you’ll stick around for the whole thing. Thanks for taking the time to read this! I would love to hear your feedback.


	3. Waiting Game

Dean downs another mouthful of whiskey, and fuck all does he need it. It’s been a long fucking day, at the end of a long fucking year, to top off a long fucking decade of shit. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, watching over Cas. The angel is down for the count courtesy of the good stuff. Sam had brought back all the necessary supplies—as if there was any doubt that he would; he is solid gold in a hospital, he has that whole compassionate bedside manner thing down to a damn science. He could wheedle anything he needed from anyone in that damn place, easy—Dean won’t admit it, but there are certain things that Sam can get done with the sweet earnest puppy routine that Dean’s devil-may care grins just can’t. Unfortunately, neither brother’s approach is doing jack for rousing the comatose Cas, hence the third round of whiskey for Dean. He’s still got the smell of Cas’ burnt flesh in his nose and Cas’ hushed screams echoing in his ears—not sure any amount of alcohol is actually gonna chase them away—most likely, they’ll give his subconscious some nice new fodder for his nightmares. Good times, Dean thinks, and takes another swig.

When Sam had returned, they’d gotten down to business; by then, of course, Dean had done as much as he could—he’d stitched up Cas’ shoulder, exchanged his wet clothes for a pair of dry boxers and sweat pants, tried to make him as comfortable as possible, and was basically going crazy just waiting. He’d called Bobby to let him know the situation. Bobby promised to look into angel injuries and lore—searching for precedents or solutions—and Dean had gone back into caged tiger mode, watching Cas like it was his goddamn job. Then Sam had come in with the necessary supplies in hand, and Dean had wasted no time, slathering Cas’ back in anti-biotic cream; his calloused hands gentle as he carefully applied the gunk into the ridges, valleys, and divots of the raw, newly re-sculpted terrain of Cas’ back and arms. The look on Dean’s face was nothing short of tender, though Sam was wise enough not to comment on it. Nevertheless, Cas kept twitching and flinching, moaning in pain. Sam set up an IV and gave him a dose of morphine and a saline drip. Dean had raised his brows at that last one, but Sam just shoke his head. 

“Dude, it’s standard treatment for burn victims,” he remarked. Dean had shrugged, better to be safe than sorry (Dean Winchester, erring on the side of caution, who’d have thought?). They had laid gauze loosely on Cas’ back, wrapped bandages more firmly around his arms, and then covered his shivering form in all the blankets they could find. 

Sam went out to get them some food, given that, as he said, “We might be here awhile.”

So Dean has been left here, with Johnnie Walker for company, just gazing at Cas’ pale form, occasionally wiping sweat off of his face and brow, remembering the times that he had done that for Sammy when he had been laid up as a kid. The primary difference being that Sam had leaned into the touch, had liked the physical comfort his big brother had to offer. Cas just looks pained, and it makes something twist in Dean’s gut. He’s not really sure what else he can do to help Cas…he’s can’t even pin-point the exact source of his pain or it’s cause, which is why he’s drinking... 

“Cas,” he whispers, low and gruff; he’s not totally sure that Cas can hear him, but that might be why he feels like he can say it, “we’re gonna figure this out…but, you gotta hang in there, man, ‘cause, uh, me and Sammy, we need you...so, for me—us, you gotta pull through, all right? ” Cas doesn’t stir, but he doesn’t get worse either, and Dean just keeps watching over the angel—‘bout time he returned the creepy favor anyway. Cas doesn’t look peaceful, he looks damn troubled, but, at least, he’s resting—that’s gotta be good for healing or something, right? 

The door opens in a burst of Sam infused energy, and Dean instinctively moves back, putting a few more inches between himself and Cas, suddenly weirdly self-conscious about their proximity on the bed. 

Sam jerks his head at Cas’ body, as he lays dinner out on the small motel room table, “How’s he doing?”

Dean shrugs, “’Bout the same.”

“How are you?” He eyes the bottle in Dean’s hand pointedly.

Dean scowls and gets up to grab the cheeseburger that Sam brought for him. It’s not an easy feat, killing Dean’s appetite (he’s been compared to a disgusting bottomless pit and a garbage disposal on numerous occasions), but he only takes one bite of his food before remembering the scent of Cas’ charred skin, and, suddenly, he’s not hungry anymore. He drops the patty back into its wrapper with disgust before taking another pull from his handy bottle of whisky. 

Sam is observing him warily, but he continues eating his salad with gusto. 

They’re going to have talk about the elephant in the room sooner or later, and, with Sam back, it’s likely to be sooner…doesn’t mean that Dean’s ready for it, but, then, when has Dean ever been willing to face anything having to do with Cas head on, especially now that he’s, well, for better or worse, kind of invested in Cas. Yeah, invested, that’s one word for it, he snarks to himself, you’re such a damned idiot.

“So,” Sam begins. Dean’s gonna need another bottle or two for this shit.

“So?”

“Are we gonna talk about this?” Sam’s got his intense, compassionate Oprah face on.

Dean deliberately avoids it, “About what?”

However, Sam is not going to stand for Dean’s evasion, and Dean can tell because Sam gives him good old bitch face #6 don’t play dumb with me, Dean, I’m not stupid, and it’s beneath you, or, it would be, if you were an actual mature individual. Dean is annoyed by the look but also absurdly pleased because it’s the first bitch face he’s gotten since they found Cas on the side of I-95, and, if Sammy is throwing around bitch faces, they’re out of the immediate crisis. At the very least, it’s enough of a customary, familiar, Sammy response to Dean’s shit, that it makes him feel a little more steady, a little less freaked out, and a little more normal—or, as normal as things get for them. 

“About Cas, Dean,” Sam says, and, though, he’s clearly trying to be sympathetic and supportive, in spite of his own worry for his friend, he can’t suppress his exasperated eye-roll.

“What about him?” Dean swallows another mouthful of alcohol. The whiskey is starting to lose its kick; it doesn’t burn as much, but Dean is, unfortunately, still too sober for this conversation. 

“Do you think he’s—you know, human?” Sam frowns.

“I don’t know, man,” Dean shakes his head, gazing at Cas because if Cas got kicked out of heaven and it’s Dean’s fault, he doesn’t know how he could ever deal with, or apologize, for that— “but he’s not healing himself and he’s sleeping, so what do you think?” 

“If he has fallen,” Sam continues earnestly, like this is a case, a very personal case, but a case none-the-less, “this is—weird.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean snorts, because calling a fallen Cas ‘weird’ is the understatement of the century.

Sam shakes his head like Dean is missing his point, “No, I mean…when Anna fell she was like reborn as a baby, when Lucifer fell, he was locked up in hell—” Sam pauses with a faraway look on his face, but thankfully doesn’t expand upon either of those two particular angels or dredge up the memories they have associated with them, “—but Cas, I mean, he still looks like Jimmy, he doesn’t seem like he has mojo—” he shrugs, “—but his wings were burnt to a crisp—”

Dean leans forward, catching Sam’s drift, “You don’t think that the lightening was lightening? You think that was Cas’ grace?” Sam didn’t get all the brains in this family, despite what anyone tells you to the contrary.

Sam shrugs, “I think that we might have a fallen angel on our hands, and I don’t really have another explanation.”

Dean frowns, his lips in a thin line; his eyes sparking dangerously, “So who did it? Raphael?” So help him, if Raphael is responsible for this shit, Dean will do things to that bastard that will make what he did in hell look like he was handing out damn party favors.

Sam brushes his hair off of his forehead in consternation, “I don’t know if he’s got the juice for that…you don’t think that Cas did this to himself do you?”

Dean honestly can’t imagine a situation where that would happen. Sure, he’d thought about a human Cas—there had been moments before and after visiting 2014, during the apocalypse, after he had lost Sam and Cas was all he had—when he had imagined what it would be like, having Cas around in a more permanent way, real and tangible, and it had been terrifying for so many reasons that Dean still refuses to touch. He would always shake the idea away before he could get too close to those hazy speculative day dreams because they weren’t a possibility. And in none of those fleeting, hastily buried scenarios, had Cas become human of his own volition. The idea was just—it was disconcerting and confusing and made Dean feel a jumpy, panicky sensation in his chest. Because why the fuck would Cas choose this in any universe? It would be incredibly fucking stupid, and Cas was a lot of things, but he was not stupid. He didn’t deserve being stuck down here with Dean and the other mud-monkey’s, no way, yet here he was, in a restless sleep, back ripped to shreds, trapped with Dean anyway. Freaking awesome.

The hunter shakes his head sharply, in denial of his guilt and Sam’s statement, “If he had, he would be a fetus, dude.”

Sam concedes the point. Dean refuses to even begin to envision Cas being lost to them that way. He shudders. He should probably wish that new lease on life for Cas over this torment with him, but he can’t manage it. He’s selfish enough not to want that, even though he hates himself for wanting…something else.

Dean looks away from Cas, long enough to catch sight of Sam’s epic scowl, it looks like he’s working through a complicated mathematical equation, and Dean really doesn’t want to know, but he asks anyway: “What?”

Sam purses his lips before answering, “You don’t think that this means that Cas, you know, lost the war in heaven?”

Dean takes a deep breathe, “If he did, we’d be screwed,” and they would be, seriously, because heaven would be back on track for the apocalypse—but they’d go down fighting again, and they both know it when they share a look, “but let those bastards try us. We stopped them once, we can do it again.” Sam raises his brows and Dean tilts his head, hoping he looks more sure of himself than he feels. 

“So what’s the plan?” Sam queries after he opens a beer and takes a much needed fortifying sip.

“Hell if I know, Sammy,” Dean admits, “we’ve still got the rib invisibility cloaks, we’ve got protective shit from all over the place—so unless Cas has like a homing beacon on him, we lay low, wait for an update from Bobby, or wait until Cas can tell us what the fuck is going on.”

Sam’s brow furrows, “You think he’s going to be able to?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam rolls his eyes, “Does he even know who he is, Dean? I mean, how do we know that it’s not Jimmy?”

“It’s Cas,” Dean speaks with assurance and finality.

“How do you know?”

It’s Dean’s turn to roll his eyes, “What do you mean, how do I know? I know.”

“Dean—” Sam begins in a please stop trying my patience here voice, “you can’t just know that it’s Cas—I mean, what, did he do your little best friends secret handshake?”

Dean smirks because Sam has accidently hit pretty close to the mark; Dean remembers Cas’ hand on his shoulder, the recognition in his eyes when he had realized Dean was there, “Does he look like he’s up for our secret handshake, Sam?” Dean retorts, “I ran the tests while you were gone,” and finding a non-injured stretch of skin and then cutting it had been such an awesome fucking experience—it made him feel like the biggest asshole in the universe, “Trust me, it’s him.”

Sam gives Dean a piercing, contemplative look—Dean knows he wants to ask him about Cas, about the time when Sam was gone, about what the fuck is going on between his brother and the angel, but he doesn’t, and Dean’s not gonna say anything about it; it’s between him and Cas, and, to be honest, he really doesn’t fucking know what the deal is himself—

“Okay, let’s say it is Cas, he’s not exactly lucid; he’s speaking in Enochian—”

“—he’s in shock, dude, if I got my soul ripped out of my back, and my fucking arms chopped off and set on fire in front of my face, I don’t think I’d be screaming in fucking Latin,” Dean rebukes, because he wouldn’t; he probably would be shouting in English, non-verbally, or one of the dialects of hell that he unfortunately is fluent in—he knows a lot of profanity in that one. Cas reverting to the oldest human languages he knows to give voice to his pain makes perfect sense to Dean.

“—fine, but this kind of trauma, do you think he’s even going to remember what happened?”

Dean takes another pull of whiskey, “I guess we’re gonna find out.”


	4. War and Peace

“So what are you saying, Bobby?” Sam asks.

“I’m sayin’ that heaven and hell are on lock down. There’s nothing on the radar. It looks like we’re either finally seein’ peace on earth,” Bobby snorts, “or the cosmos is resettin’ the pieces on the universal chess board.”

“Great,” Sam sighs. Can’t they catch a break? Just one time? “I’ll let Dean know when I get back.” His brother is gonna love this. 

Sam can hear Bobby shifting books and papers in the background, “How’s he doin’ anyway?”

“He’s worried about Cas, and doesn’t want to show it.”

“So he’s got his head further up his ass than usual.”

Sam laughs, “Basically.”

“Make sure he don’t do somethin’ stupid.”

“Right, that’ll be easy,” Sam rolls his eyes. 

“How’s the angel?” Bobby’s voice is gruff, but he sounds concerned.

Sam sighs, “Still out of it.”

“Well, when he wakes up,” Bobby continues, and Sam likes his certainty that Cas will wake up; he needs that, “I got some questions for him.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “So do we; I’ll keep you posted.”

“Take care, boy,” Bobby tells him.

“Yeah, you, too, Bobby,” Sam hangs up. He sighs, leaning against the hood of the Impala in the mostly empty parking lot of a Waffle House. It was only a ten minute drive from the motel, and it seemed as good a place as any to grab some breakfast. Sam rubs his forehead, he’s had a long night, though, maybe not as long as Dean and Cas; hence he’s on a food run and checking in with Bobby, while the two of them get a few extra minutes of shut eye—no doubt they’re gonna need it, and Sam’s understanding like that. Plus, he needed some space to think the situation through without seeing the pained looks on both of their faces (Cas’ comes from physical and, presumably metaphysical, injures, Dean’s from emotional and psychological ones). He’s worried about Cas, about Dean, about the fate of the universe—he’d call that a typical Wednesday if it weren’t for Cas’ particular situation and the news that Bobby had just dropped on him. 

Sam walks into the mostly empty restaurant and places his order, leaning against the counter, largely ignoring the advances of the young waitress, Lauren, while trying to figure out if there have been any signs or portents lately. She’s noticed nothing except yesterday’s storm, but, she shrugs, “Not that weird for June ‘round here.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “Right,” Hurricane force winds, grace explosions, and fallen angels are totally typical in the South East in mid-June, par for the course.

“So that’s: three double waffles; two sides of hash browns, one with cheese; a side of sausage; a side of bacon; and four coffees to go.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Sam pays in cash; Lauren writes her number on the receipt, and Sam smiles politely, grabbing the bag of food and leaving. It’s drizzling and humid outside, steam rising off of the asphalt. He drinks his first cup of coffee in the Impala on the way back to the motel. Sam is quiet in his approach to the room. 

Last night had been…traumatic. Dean had given the second bed to Sam and had suffered no protestations to the contrary. 

“It’s fine, man,” he had insisted, not even glancing away from Cas.

Sam kept shooting looks between his brother and the angel because ever since he came back from hell, ever since he got his soul back, he’s noticed that something is different between them. Dean and Cas have always been close; they’d had a special bond, and once Cas had rebelled against heaven, he and Dean had just kind of clicked. But lately, they’d seemed—more intense. Dean has always been resistant to making connections outside of his family, to making friends, to trusting people, which makes sense—Sam himself has let Dean down multiple times—but it’s like Dean has just taken Cas into that space where so few people are allowed to go, and, now, with Cas injured, it’s as if Dean is too worried or scared about Cas’ recovery to bother hiding how much he cares about the guy. Sam isn’t sure if Dean has ever really put much thought into how he feels about Cas—he loves his brother, but getting him to talk about his feelings is like performing a complex dental procedure without Novocain; Dean is more of a drown emotions in alcohol and violence type of guy most of the time—Sam wonders if this falling thing, Cas being around more, might be something of a paradigm shift for the two of them…Don’t get him wrong, he wants Cas to get better—Cas is his friend too, and he’s done so much for the both of them, hell, for humanity, that if paying him back for that means finding his missing mojo, Sam’s all for it—but he can’t help but hope that the angel and his brother might both get something out of this…Knowing the way the universe usually responds to Sam’s wishes, he’s not really all that optimistic, and he accepts on some level that it’s probably not going to happen, but he can dream…

They’d crashed hard last night, all three of them; Dean leaning on the headboard next to Cas’ face down form, and Sam sprawled out on the spare bed. That had only lasted about three hours, when Sam had woken up to screaming. He’d flown out of bed into a fighting stance, knife at the ready before realizing that Cas was the one making the noise, and Dean was trying to calm him down.

“What’s going on?” Sam had asked, coming over to help, but Cas had flipped out at the sight of him, and began struggling harder against the IV drip, shouting, and recoiling in Dean’s arms. Sam had stepped back, hands up, weapon down, in a gesture of peace.

“Nightmare,” Dean said tensely to his brother, struggling to get Cas to realize what was happening, where he was, and that he was okay (or as okay as could be expected, given the circumstances). It had taken about ten minutes of hushed conversation, while Sam stood by feeling helpless. Dean was showing Cas a degree of tenderness that Sam had not seen since he was a child, that he had thought their father, a lifetime of hunting, and an extended stay in hell had beaten out of his brother; it blew him away a little bit to see it resurface, and it made him realize beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was something extraordinary between Dean and Castiel.

Cas was shaky and sweaty, but something that Dean said must have penetrated the panicked haze and residual nightmares because he stilled, breathing heavily, before laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder, staring intently at his face, like he might be expected to draw it from memory later. Dean ran a hand through Cas’ hair, gently and Cas leaned towards him before flinching sharply away. Dean’s face fell, but he continued his ministrations. Sam bit his lip, watching them. 

They’d changed Cas’ dressings (his back still looked flayed, but it was healing more quickly than was strictly normal), given him more morphine for the pain, and then laid him back down and covered him up. He’d woken with nightmares twice more throughout the night, both times it had taken Dean at least fifteen minutes to calm him down and bring him back to the present. Sam couldn’t really do anything, but stand by supportively, given that Cas didn’t seem to recognize him in the immediate aftermath of his dreams. Feeling powerless in the face of a friend’s pain sucked, watching Dean shoulder the burden alone also sucked, and Sam hated it.

So he’d tried to be helpful this morning by going to get some breakfast, maybe they could get Cas to try to eat something solid today. Sam is guessing that if he’s human enough to be sleeping and having nightmares, getting some food in him would probably be a good idea. He had woken up at seven and quietly gotten dressed, grabbed the keys from the table, careful not to rouse Cas or Dean. The angel was laying on his stomach only his left arm exposed, crisp white bandages stark against the dark comforter; his face turned towards Dean. Dean for his part was curled protectively towards Cas, only a few inches separating them, his right finger tips resting as lightly as possible on Cas’ exposed palm. Sam had given their sleeping forms a small smile, unwilling to disturb them, and feeling strangely like he was intruding on something intensely private.

He half expects them to be in the same position when he returns, which is why he opens the door very softly, but it’s only Cas lying in the bed, dead to the world. Sam can hear the shower running, so he sets up breakfast on the small table, and digs into his waffles and his second cup of coffee, while he waits for his brother. Dean comes out of the bathroom ten minutes later with his hair in damp spikes, fully dressed, wiping his face with his hand. He looks exhausted but when he spies Sam, food, and coffee, he smiles almost radiantly, “Waffle House?”

Sam nods.

“Remind me to get you an extra nice birthday present this year,” Dean grins before downing his cup of coffee in one gulp and enthusiastically digging into his cheese covered hash browns. Sam is eating at a slower pace, but then Dean hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday at lunch, so he supposes he can excuse the disgusting display of Dean shoveling the greasy mess into his mouth. 

“So Bobby called,” Sam begins, once Dean has finished the hash-browns. His brother pauses, mid-bite of his bacon.

“Did he have news about Cas?” he looks ready for a solution, and Sam doesn’t want to dash that expression of really misplaced hope.

“Not exactly,” Sam replies, Dean’s face hardens, “Apparently, there’s been no sign of demon activity since yesterday at two in the afternoon.”

“The same time we found Cas,” Dean supplies.

Sam frowns, “Looks like.”

Dean leans forward, forearms on the table, hands clasped, he glances at Cas with a furrowed brow, before looking back at Sam, “So what’s Bobby’s theory; Raphael and Crowley called a truce and are singing kumbaya, roasting marshmallows, around the hellfire?”

Sam smirks halfheartedly; he can always count on Dean’s humor to break up even the most horrendous situations. This morning, he’s thankful, rather than annoyed by that particular trait, “He’s got two theories.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, “And?”

“World peace,” Sam deadpans.

“’Cause that’s likely,” Dean snorts. Sam nods in commiseration; there’s no way that’s ever gonna happen, “What’s behind door number two?”

“Armageddon the Sequel,” Sam allows.

“Well that’s just fucking awesome,” Dean says, taking a sip of coffee. His eyes dart to Cas again. He’s trying to be subtle about it, but really missing the mark. Sam hates the fact that Dean thinks he has to hide the worry and affection he feels—for Sam, for Cas, for both of them.  
It shouldn’t be like that. But, of course, Dean’s learned over and over again, that it has to be. Sam purses his lips. 

“So what are we thinking; that whatever did this to Cas is responsible for the heaven/hell lockdown?”

Sam shrugs, shifting his focus to the problem at hand “Seems like our best guess right now; Bobby’s still working on it.”

“Great,” Dean scowls. He wants to be able to do something, anything, to fix this; the waiting game is not one that he wants to play, especially not if people he cares about lie in the balance. 

Sam sighs, “Our best bet right now is to get the scoop from Cas.”

Dean narrows his eyes; “Yeah, well, Cas isn’t talkin’ yet.” It is unbelievably strange to be on this side of his brother in mama bear mode; Sam is usually the person being protected, not the one considered a threat…he’s kind of impressed. It actually makes him feel happy (a weird feeling in general for him) to know that Dean is that worried about and protective of Cas.

“Chill, dude,” Sam makes the open palm gesture: slow down, it signals, I’m not gonna hurt anyone here, especially not Cas; he’s my friend, too, remember? Dean leans back in his chair, nodding a little, indicating that his brother should continue; Sam is thankful for non-verbal communication sometimes, because Dean is much more willing to converse in it, “I’m not saying we wake him up and give him the third degree,” He follows Dean’s gaze over to Cas, “Sleeping is good for him, I’m guessing. I just mean, when he does wake up, we’re gonna have to ask him about this, see what he knows.”

Dean’s mouth is a hard line. Sam can read his brother like an open book, and he knows that Dean’s thinking about Cas’ back, the fact that the burns, as bad as they are, are superficial wounds, which is terrifying to think about—all evidence points to the fact that Cas has lost his grace, that he’s literally had his wings incinerated, and who knows what else. Judging by the screams, he’s guessing a lot. Sam’s face softens as he looks at Dean looking at Cas, because those nightmares last night, they were just the beginning, both Winchesters know what it’s like to be tortured, to be in pain, to live every twisted agony you can think of—but it’s never finished, you get to relive it over and over, in your waking hours, in your dreams, in seemingly innocuous reference points that you encounter every single day. Asking Cas about what happened, that’s the first step in forcing him to deal with that, forcing him to relive whatever the hell he’s been through. Dean’s expression says that he would rather set himself on fire than do that to Cas, that he doesn’t want to bring about those hellish memories for the angel. Sam also knows that they have to, and so does Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter four. Sorry about all the suspense (kinda), but Cas will be in the next chapter, which is going to be mostly from Dean's POV, so stay tuned. Thank you for taking time to read and review!


	5. And on the Third Day

Later, if Dean were asked to give a SparkNotes version of the first few days of Cas' fall—a quick, cut and dry synopsis of the events that followed—it would go something like this:

Day Zero: Don't be dead.

Day One: Fucking, wake up, Cas. Fuck off, Sam. God damn it, Bobby. Fucking angels, man.

Day Two: Seriously, fucking wake up, Cas. Leave me the fuck alone, Sam, you're fucking annoying me. Also, Chuck is a fucking dick.

Day Three: Cas is up, finally, thank fucking god (not).

Of course, that version leaves out a lot. A more accurate account (which includes Dean's significantly repressed emotional trauma) would be the following:

Day Zero: Cas shows up; literally drops from the fucking sky onto the side of the goddamned highway. He gives Dean a heart-attack; Dean gives Sam whiplash, and some fucking divine asshat gives Cas a really brutal combination wing/grace-ectomy, with a nice side of flayed skin, and near-death experience. Sammy robs a hospital. Dean watches Cas like it's his goddamn job.

Day One: Cas spends mostly comatose, except when he wakes up from nightmares in severe pain. Dean is going fucking insane from Cas' screams and the fact that he can't do a damn thing to make it better. Sam argues that getting through to Cas enough to bring him back from the edge is a pretty big something, but Dean doesn't feel like it's enough.

They change his bandages; Dean obsessively hovers close to him at all times. He snaps at Sam, and grumbles constantly when he's not glowering moodily. Sam mutters about how he "didn't think that Dean could do better impression of a pissed off grizzly," but, as he says, he "apparently spoke way too damn soon." Dean glares at him ('fucking bite me, Sam'); feels fucking helpless and annoyed. It's all seriously improved (not) by the news from Bobby that heaven and hell might be resetting the field for the ultimate cosmic death match…as of yesterday afternoon. So, basically the three of them are enjoying a much deserved, all expenses paid vacation; everything is margaritas and sunshine…Dean drinks, a lot. Sam researches a lot. Cas dozes and then suddenly startles awake, panicked, Dean tries to get him to realize that he's okay (even though he's about as far from okay as it's possible to be), and Sam stands by powerlessly, making sympathetic faces, and the cycle repeats.

Day Two: Cas' wounds are healing more quickly than they have any right to. Dean is not sure whether to be thankful, worried, or extremely distrustful. Sam's theory is that whatever residual grace he has left is being put towards repairing his body before it peters out of existence—like getting one final spark from a dying battery, which would explain why it's not inhuman presto-reparo shit, but just accelerated natural healing. Dean should probably look this gift horse pretty damn thoroughly in the mouth, but he's too relieved that Cas is on the mend—though he's still really out of it—sleeping, waking, screaming.

By this point, Dean is apparently driving Sam insane: "I get that you're worried about him, I am, too," Dean levels him a stare because whatever this thing is between him and Cas, it's not the same, and while Sam is worried, it's not equivalent to the borderline terror that Dean is experiencing. Sam sighs heavily because he knows that, too, "Staring at him isn't going to make him better, man, it's just gonna make you more likely to fly off the deep end and do something stupid before he wakes up." Dean resents that mightily and scowls to prove it, but Sam gives him bitch face #62: I'm right, and we both know it. Dean glares harder, which leaves Sam no choice but to almost physically throw his brother out of the motel room.

"I'll watch Cas. You don't want to talk about all the stuff you're trying to avoid, fine, whatever, but go for a run, take the Impala for a drive, get a drink; I don't care, just get it out of your system, so we can deal with this shit when you come back." Dean is resentful, but concedes the point, and he sulks away, while Sam rolls his eyes.

He goes for a drive. Baby understands (she always does), and, most importantly, she doesn't force him to talk about his goddamn fears and feelings and shit. He cranks up Metallica, rolls down the windows, drums (more aggressively than usual) on the steering wheel. He cruises around town, and it's meditative, familiar, and soothing. Maybe Sam was right, not that Dean will admit it. He gets back to the motel room after gassing up the car and grabbing some grub. He's feeling a little calmer, which should have prepared him for shitty news.

"So get this," Sam greets when Dean walks in, plastic bag filled with liquor bottles and sandwiches.

Dean groans, "What?"

"I got an email while you were out—"

Dean drops the food onto the table next to Sam and his laptop. Gigantor grabs a sandwich. Dean walks over to Cas, peering at his tense, resting, face. Dean frowns and brushes his hand through Cas' hair; his eyelids twitch, but that's the only response he gives. Dean sighs; at least his skin is closer to normal temperature.

Sam watches the interaction with a soft expression that Dean shrugs off, "He hasn't woken up; he was fine while you were out by the way." It's a mark of how concerned he is for Dean and Cas that he doesn't, by word or expression, give Dean the "I told you so" that he deserves.

Dean nods, flopping into the chair across from Sam: "So you got an email…?"

Sam raises his brows, "From Chuck."

"Chuck?" Dean's face is a testament to his incredulity. Seriously, what the fuck? "Chuck, the prophet Chuck? Sells our life story for profit, that Chuck?"

Sam huffs, "That's the one."

Dean has a brief flash—through the annoyance he feels whenever Chuck is mentioned (he's a nice guy and all, but the dude is just associated with too many shitty things in Dean's life for him to feel genuine affection)—of hope…Chuck has like an eye to the divine plan and all that crap, maybe he's got some insight into what the ever-loving-fuck is going on—more importantly maybe he's got some cure all solution for Cas. "What'd he have to say?"

Sam takes a deep breath, scrunches his mouth to the side, "Not much."

"How much is not much?" Dean asks. He's not the most patient person right now.

Sam flips his laptop around so that Dean can read the missive.

Dear Sam, Dean, and Cas,

I, uh, think I finally figured out an epilogue.

Chuck.

"That's it?" Dean is beyond pissed, "What the fuck does that mean?"

Sam raises his brows, cants his head to the side, "Scroll down."

Dean screws up his face in disgust and does so. There's a post-script; it's an address in upstate New York.

"Dude, what the hell?"

"I don't know," Sam shrugs.

"Seriously, what the hell?"

Sam licks his lips and clenches his jaw; clearly Dean is not the only one whose patience is running thin, "Seriously, I don't know."

"Well, did you try calling him?" Dean snaps.

Sam gives him bitch face #13 do I look like an idiot to you? "I called, texted, replied to the email, even called the publisher chick…nothing."

"Awesome, just fucking awesome."

Sam sighs again, and it looks like he's considering something really seriously—something that Dean is not going to like.

"What?" Dean asks, forestalling another round of the waiting game.

"I think we should check it out."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Sam shakes his head, "I don't think so, no. Not more so than usual, anyway."

"How is this a good idea; we've got Cas fucking ripped to hell; Crowley and Raphael plotting some un-holy alliance, and you want to go on a scavenger hunt inspired by Chuck? Really? Chuck? You remember the last time he sent us on a little trip? Zachariah gave me stomach cancer and ripped out your damn lungs," and god knows what the fuck the angelic Boy Scout troop will do to a rebellious and newly human Cas.

Sam opens his palms, "I remember, thanks."

That might have been a little harsh, Dean will admit—or not. He busts out the bottle of whiskey he brought back, and Sam gives him a disparaging glance. Dean pours two glasses full and passes one to his brother. For all the judgmental face, Sam accepts his readily.

"I'm just saying that we don't have any other leads here," Sam has a point, "we're gonna have to come up with a game plan, Dean…this might be a starting point."

Dean resolves to leave Chuck threatening messages until he explains this, but Sam is right: they don't have an alternative except sitting on their thumbs waiting and hoping for something to fall into their laps. Whatever is going to go down, they need to make a move, preferably a preemptive strike, and maybe that move is driving to New York and finding out what the fuck Chuck's cryptic message is about.

"What the hell does he mean he 'came up with an epilogue'?" Dean retorts, and Sam relaxes a little, perhaps because he really needed a stiff drink, but more likely because Dean is at least willing to play along. The way Sam's shoulders unclench leads Dean to realize how tense Sam has been and how much he is walking on eggshells around him. Dean's not really handling any of this well (Since when do I fucking handle anything well, he thinks, I'm the one who makes everything goddamn worse), and taking his shit out on Sam is not really the best way to deal with this situation. He resolves to try and tone down the lashing out. Try being the key word, at least, until Cas wakes up. He will feel so much fucking better if—when—Cas wakes up.

"No idea," Sam shrugs.

"Shit," Dean says, "I guess we're going to New York."

They spend the rest of the day observing Cas, trying to figure out what the hell is going on upstairs or downstairs. Bobby's got nothing new (he's fielding a lot of panicked and disgruntled hunters who don't know what's going on any more than they do—and probably significantly less). They fall into a restless sleep, Sam still at the table with his laptop screen glowing, Dean on the bed watching over Cas, Doctor Sexy hazy in the background.

Day Three: Well, that's the day Cas wakes up. Sam will later find it mildly amusing, "You know, like on the third day he rose again?" Dean less so (that comment actually prompts him to give Sam a bitch face of his own). Cas kind of appreciates the religious symmetry. Bobby thinks it's fucking hilarious, "Feathers, god damn would, idjit." But mostly everyone is just incredibly relieved, and they all show it in their own ways.

It's not a graceful wake up call by any stretch of the imagination, but it does come at the point when Dean is legitimately starting to worry that Cas is just not gonna wake up. Ever. Sam counters that "He's getting better, just look at his arms." "That doesn't mean jack, Sam, he could just be comatose for the rest of his life, or eternity, whatever the fuck Rapheal did to him." Sam sighs, "We don't even know for sure that it was Raphael, Dean." "Whatever, man." Sam's eye roll is audible.

Sam is clicking away on his laptop. Dean is sitting next Cas on the bed "watching" El demonio. Miguel is confessing his undying love to an unconscious Julieta (she's in a coma after a being poisoned by a jealous Daniela). Dean isn't really paying attention (so the irony of the plot is completely lost on him, though not on Sam, who glances from the TV screen to his brother and Cas and back to his laptop with an exasperated sigh every three minutes or so). Dean is zoned out, lost track of the program completely, purposely tuning out Sam's annoyed huffs. He is being way more productive, by staring at Cas' sleeping form; he had tried to will Cas awake (still not working at this point) and somehow in the process he had become entranced just looking at him. Dean is sort of captivated by the swirl of his ear. It's really weird, and he assumes that he's finally losing it; hypnotized by Cas' ear and the messy spikes of his hair and the line of his jaw. He's lost just gazing, which is why he doesn't immediately realize what it means when Cas' eyelashes flutter, and Dean sees a flash of blue, but then Cas' fingers twitch and he blinks, his voice is gruff when he says, "Hello, Dean."

"Holy shit," Dean startles, reaching out and laying a hand on his shoulder, "Cas? Can you hear me."

"Castiel?!" Sam's fingers freeze on the keyboard, and he swivels like a goddamn hound catching a scent.

"Yes, I can—," Cas clears his throat, tries to move, but crinkles his nose and winces at the uncomfortable sensation it causes, "—I can hear you."

"Jesus, man," Dean feels like he can actually breathe again for the first time in days, weeks, "you scared the fucking hell out of me."

Cas struggles to get up, tugging at the IV line, and hurting just about everything probably, judging by his face; Dean intervenes, "Woah, woah, take it easy, tiger, slow down," Dean helps. His touch causes Cas to cringe, but he's not struggling as hard as he had before.

Sam runs over in two giant strides and kneels by Cas' bedside, assisting Dean and looking at Cas like he's a goddamn miracle. It's sort of like the first time that Sam and Cas met, except that now Cas smiles weekly at Dean's baby brother instead of looking at him like he's an abomination.

They finally get Cas situated, sitting up, propped against a bunch of pillows. He looks uncomfortable, and he keeps grimacing, but he's awake and alert and, as far as Dean is concerned, that's fucking awesome. Sam squats down by the side of the bed peering at Cas' face. Dean has apparently turned into a touchy feel girl because he's stroking Cas' hair and staring at him like the angel made the damn sun rise or some such shit—the craziest part is that he doesn't give a flying fuck because he's so damn happy that Cas is awake, giving Dean that same penetrating stare, like he's memorizing every part of him. The hunter missed it.

"How are you feelin', Cas?" he asks, voice rough but tender.

Cas shifts and winces, "I am…" he stares at his hand, flexing and un-flexing his fingers slowly; he considers his response carefully, "thirsty."

Sam almost laughs, "I think we can take care of that," he shares a slightly worried look with Dean and goes to fetch a bottle of water.

Dean keeps watching Cas, laying his hand on his shoulder, very lightly, "You okay?"

Cas continues to be enraptured by the movement of his own hand, like it's a foreign object attached to his wrist, and this is the first time he's ever seen it; but he shifts his focus slowly to Dean, intently gazing into his face with wide blue eyes, "I am glad that you found me," he states slowly and carefully. Like he's calculating all of his words: maybe he's readjusting to English? Dean's not sure.

"Yeah," Dean doesn't want to think of what might have happened if they hadn't, "Me too." He moves his hand to stroke Cas' cheek, but Sam comes back and he freezes in the motion, clears his throat, and drops his hand back to Cas' shoulder. Cas watches the movement quizzically, before accepting the bottle of water with a bandaged hand. Sam has to open it for him, and he takes a tentative sip with a sigh.

"Thank you," he breathes, eyes closed. For a moment, Dean worries that he's going to drift off again, but he after a moment he refocuses on them.

"Cas," Sam looks closely at Cas' face, "What do you remember?"

Dean shoots daggers at his baby brother, "Dude, he just woke up," because Cas has been comatose for days—really long, painful, terrifying fucking days—and he doesn't deserve the Spanish Inquisition the second he opens his eyes; this is fucking Cas they're talking about, and, though they need to know what the hell they're dealing with, Dean wants to put that off until Cas is stronger, more stable, less likely to disappear. "Give him a minute, Sam."

Sam just shakes his head. He knows what Dean is thinking, understands and respects it, but he's got more perspective, and, though he seems chastened, he gives Cas a supportive look and continues, "I'm sorry, Castiel, but we need to know what happened." He's got that really compassionate voice, filled with warm fuzzies and shit; Dean hates it right now.

Cas averts his gaze to his bandaged arms.

Something is brewing here; Dean wants to protect Cas, shield him from it…and also, maybe, himself. They can't take back whatever is about to come out, and he has a feeling that he doesn't want to know.

"We don't have to talk about this right now," Dean interjects.

"Dean—"

"Sam, he just fucking woke up."

"We need to know what happened to him."

"So we can gank whatever asshole did this; I'm not a fucking idiot, Sam, I know, but it can wait until tomorrow."

"You're being unreasonable—"

"The hell I am—"

"Sam is right," Cas' voice is hushed but certain, and he manages to stop their argument completely, which is probably qualifies as the second miracle of the day, "We need to discuss this."

"Cas, we really—"

"Dean," Cas looks up at him and the hunter feels trapped by the gaze, "it's okay."

It's not at all, and it might be on the verge of becoming significantly worse.

Sam is earnest, he pulls up a chair and leans forward, elbows propped on his knees, "So, what happened?"

Cas frowns, like he's really struggling to makes sense of something, and Dean suddenly doesn't give a fuck that Sam is there; he rests his hand on the back of Cas' wrist. Cas twitches, but Dean doesn't move, and Cas stares at Dean's hand in something like wonder, before scowling again. It's all very weird, but, hey, when is anything normal?

"It's…confusing," Cas begins, slowly and haltingly, "the pieces are jumbled."

"That's okay," Sam reassures him; Dean muses that his brother really missed his calling as a psychiatrist, not that he doesn't do his best moonlighting in the profession with Dean and Cas, "Just tell us what you can remember."

"We were in a battle," Cas enunciates each word precisely, his forehead furrowed and tense, "the armies of heaven, in combat against one another, and…"

Dean briefly grips his wrist encouragingly, and Cas glances up at his face briefly, before looking down again, "It stopped."

"What stopped?" Sam inquires.

"Everything, we were all frozen. There was a light."

"What was it?"

"God," Cas flexes his fingers and finally looks at Sam and Dean, who are both nonplussed, "It was god."

"God?!"

"God?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean really would like to punch the heavenly father in his fucking holy face because, seriously, he shows up now? Seriously?

"I am not." Cas does not look like he's kidding at all.

"So, ah, god shows up, then what?" Sam is proceeding cautiously, unsure whether to be enthusiastic, angry, resentful, or validated, but determined to get to the bottom of things regardless…

"He stopped the fighting, we were paralyzed. Raphael had very nearly wounded me fatally in combat—" Cas says it so deadpan, like it's no big deal, but Dean feels his heart stutter to a stop for a moment at how close he came to losing Cas without even knowing it…he might never have known it…great, now he owes god for something.

Sam swallows hard.

"—we were bathed in his presence, and then…" Cas pauses. His jaw clenches.

"Then?" Dean prods gently.

Sam shoots him a quizzical face, before re-focusing on Cas.

"He spoke to me," Cas takes a deep breath; Dean thinks there are tears glazing the angel's eyes, "It was overwhelming, his attention, his presence…"

"Yeah, I bet," Dean mutters, and Sam would have kicked him, but he is too far away, so he gives him bitch face #18 shut the fuck up. Now is not the time. Dean scowls, he knows all about absentee dads who show up and are suddenly your whole damn world (maybe not as cosmically, but the principle's the same), it fucking sucks ass. Thankfully, Cas misses the brothers' exchange.

"What did he say?" You can tell that Sam is hoping for some mystery of the universe reveal, or some sort of apology to Cas and the brothers and humanity in general, or, at the very least, some kind of catharsis for Castiel from his distant father. His dreams are about to crash and burn.

"He said," Castiel's eyes find Dean's face again, they're desperate and lost, and Dean wants to get rid of that expression, he never wants to see Cas wear it again, and he never wants there to be a cause for it, ever, "He said, 'You asked for freedom.'"

"And?" Sam's trying to stay supportive, but his face is mask of frustration, disappointment, and confusion.

Cas frowns, "And then I fell."

For a moment, all Dean can hear is his pulse beat echoing in his ears. His mind goes blank, white hot, and consumed with anger, and then one though occurs to him, the only one: "I am going to rip that mother-fucker apart."

Cas looks confused, but, also, strangely bolstered by Dean's wrath. He doesn't smile, but his frown softens a bit, "I believe that is, as you say, 'above your pay grade.'"

"I don't fucking care, I can't believe that fucking bastard shows up and—"

"Wait," Sam stops Dean before he can do something insane; looking back, Dean should probably thank him, "you don't just mean 'to earth,' do you?"

Dean stares at Cas, and he's not sure what the hell is happening inside his chest because he feels like all the air has just been sucked from his lungs and he's paralyzed, "Cas?" he tries.

Cas averts his eyes, gazes fixedly at his hands. He flexes his fingers again, slowly, methodically, wincing, "No. I'm…I have fallen."

"You're human?"

Dean isn't blinking He can't move or breathe because it's one thing to think about this, fantasize about it, worry about it, imagine, even assume it; it's totally fucking different to have it be real. He can't process this...

Cas looks at Sam, and then locks eyes with Dean. The hunter has no idea what the expression on his face means; he's never seen it before, a muscle in his jaw jumps.

"Yes."

Well fuck. "I'm sorry, man." He doesn't know what else to say. Cas's eyes skitter back to his bandages, away from Dean's undoubtedly gobsmacked countenance. Sam goes hard core into consoling mode, and Dean lets him.

His brain has sort of stumbled to a stop; short circuited or something. Cause he's not really processing much. He's just staring at Cas, like he's seeing him for the first time (only less suspiciously and violently than the actual first time). Hell, he kind of is looking at him for the first tiem: he's looking at freshly minted, de-graced, one hundred percent human Castiel, who suddenly won't meet his eyes and is answering Sam's questions with a bland tone.

Through the haze (and he's pretty sure that Sam is giving him some good old bitch face #76 dude, what the fuck is wrong with you, get it together here, or, at least, close your mouth, you look like a fish and it's gross), he learns some things. Like the fact that Sam's theory was right: the last residue of grace was responsible for Cas' quick healing time (though not any absence of pain). "Regardless," Cas notes bluntly, "It's gone now." That Cas is not just chilling in the remains of Jimmy Novak; this meatsuit is his own; crafted in Jimmy's image, but completely new and completely Cas'. Sam looks shocked, and Dean feels a sense of anger at the injustice that Cas has been cheated out of years of his life. More proof that god is a dick. He doesn't say this out loud, but he's seething and Sam knows what Dean is thinking, judging by his expression, he at least partially agrees with him. The brothers discover that god, more or less, is responsible for putting the angels and demons in, what Sam paraphrases as a 'perpetual time out.' Lucifer and Michael are in something that sounds like a kind of twisted cosmic family counseling/lockdown; knowing the bastards, that fate is probably a worse version of hell, confronting a literal eternity of family drama sounds fucking terrifying. Monsters have been regulated to purgatory on a case by case basis the exact schema of which Cas doesn't really know. Apparently, god handed down some proclamations when he first showed up. Cas doesn't remember anything of the actual fall beyond god's words, excruciating pain, and waking up screaming yesterday morning.

Cas looks done in, he's still avoiding Dean's gaze, meanwhile Dean can't look away, and Sam is alternating between giving Cas his most supportive conciliatory expression and shooting a wide array of bitch faces at his brother. They get rid of the IV and decide to nix the morphine (which Dean is stoked about), unless it's necessary. They won't have to change Cas' bandages for a while, so they help him to get comfortable. Dean moves to get up, now that Cas seems settled, but Cas reaches for him in an abortive, stilted gesture, unconscious and perhaps unsure. Dean notices it; he also notices the flash of pleading blue that Cas gives him before looking down.

Dean sits back down, scoots over until he's propped against the headboard, "Sammy, why don't you go get us—" meaning Cas "—somethin' to eat? I got things covered here."

Sam gives him a small, guarded smile; it's knowing, though about what, Dean's not sure. Cas sighs somewhat contented at Dean's proclamation and closes his eyes, drifting off pretty quickly (he's still drowsy from the pain meds). After Sam leaves, Dean moves incrementally closer to Cas, surveying his sleeping face. "Are you human?" "Yes." "Yes." It echoes in his head, over and over. He reaches out, tentative, and brushes his hand through Cas' hair, making sure he's really there. Castiel sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update; it's been a really hectic few weeks. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review this story. I hope you'll stick around. If you get the chance, I'd love to hear what you think! Hugs


	6. Trade in These Wings on Some Wheels

Castiel is flying. He is faster than light, than sound. He is the wind. He skirts along the equator, his wings skim the tips of waves on the Pacific; he sees the sun rise over the ruins of Machu Pichu. Castiel is everywhere and nowhere at once.

Time is meaningless.

He sits invisible by the fire of a Bedouin tribesman, stands motionless in the fields of Patagonia, dances alongside the Northern lights in the frozen Siberian Tundra. He watches a small boy in Montana take his first steps, lies beside the cats sunning themselves on the ruins of ancient Rome, mediates, unseen, beside monks in a Buddhist temple; imbibing their serenity.

Castiel is free. He is himself. He is made of grace and fury, ice and lightning, he is sunlight and hurricanes, frost and fire. He is limitless, beyond. He flies and he feels peace. He cannot remember when last he experienced such calm, such joy.

He is in Greece, perched on rocky outcroppings, overlooking the sea, when he hears the scream. Piercing, sharp, it chills him to the very heart of his grace, and he knows he is needed. He leaps, sudden and swift, towards the sound, and yet he is weighed down. Desperation creeps in, he has to move faster, but he is dragged back, held, struggling.

No. No. The voice he recognizes as Dean's calls his name. Castiel must go to him, but he can't. It should not be so. He will find Dean, has to. Castiel feels panic. He has never felt panic before, Dean needs him, but…something is wrong with his wings. He realizes this abruptly and turns to look over his shoulder. They are burning, on fire, crumbling to ash, and suddenly Castiel can feel them burning. It is agony beyond anything he knows; his screams merge with Dean's, and Castiel knows that he won't reach the hunter in time, and then, he falls…

He wakes with a startled gasp in the backseat of the Impala.

"You okay back there?" A gruff voice issues from the driver's seat.

Dean is all right, he's staring at Cas in the rearview mirror. A quick glance to his right confirms that Sam is also safe, leaning against the window and dozing. Castiel exhales slowly, or tries to, his respiration has accelerated; he is sweating, and he assumes that his shaking limbs are caused by adrenaline. It's strange to observe the hormone's effects from this perspective.

"Cas?" Dean prompts.

Castiel winces and levers himself slowly into a seated position. Trying to feel more…grounded. He is, of course, grounded in every sense of the term.

"I am…" there are not really words in any of the languages Castiel knows to describe how or what or who he is. He is a fallen angel, a newly created human, he is injured, and confused, he is in pain on every level imaginable. He recognizes what Dean wants to hear, but Castiel is anything but fine. From what he knows of the hunter, more than a falsehood, he would appreciate the truth. This lesson is one that Castiel has learned over a long and complicated acquaintance that grows steadily more confusing and complex by the hour. So he settles on "uncomfortable."

Dean nods, his mouth a hard line, "That's probably an understatement."

Castiel blinks, that statement is an understatement. Dean is grappling to understand what Castiel is, as Sam says, 'going through,' but it is difficult for even the former angel to comprehend or 'come to terms' with it. He doesn't respond. He moves slightly, wincing as he does so, trying to make the pillow that the Winchesters' stole from their last motel accommodate his form in a way that will not lead to more physical agony. So far, Castiel has not had much luck in this pursuit. He shifts back, grimacing. Even that light touch hurts, but he dislikes lying on his stomach, it makes him feel…vulnerable—another new sensation.

Dean watches him quietly. He watches Castiel more than he used to, or, perhaps, Castiel simply notices it more.

"Another nightmare?" he queries, green eyes intent, concerned.

Castiel glances out the window, watches the scenery fly past; it seems so quick and, yet, so slow. As an angel, Castiel felt their movement as the most infinitesimal progress in a heap of metal, breakable, flimsy, agonizingly slow, and extremely confining. As a human, Castiel is not accustomed to the speed; he finds it disconcerting. Reconciling the two perceptions is confusing.

"Yes," he affirms. Angels do not dream. They do not sleep. When Castiel had been cut off from the host in the End of Days, he had slept, but he had not dreamt, there was still enough of his celestiality to prevent that. Nightmares are new to Castiel, and they catch him whenever he closes his eyes. They are…unpleasant. Castiel does not find sleep as restful as it was undoubtedly meant to be. He hates it exorbitantly, yet it is necessary, much like breathing, blinking, eating, drinking, urinating…Castiel is struggling with these new necessary physical processes, which he alternatively views as fascinating and frustrating. He understands that they are beautiful markers of his father's creation, but they are so limiting…Sleep is, thus far, his least favorite pastime. He does not like to dream. It hurts.

Dean taps his fingers on the wheel. Castiel stares at the movement. It is mesmerizing. Castiel's senses are different, they are new. Angels do not see or hear the way that humans do. When Castiel had been using a vessel, he had still experienced the world primarily as a celestial being, with a thin veneer of humanity encasing him. When he had looked at Dean before, he could see him as Jimmy did, with human eyes, but more than that. He could see the resonance of Dean's soul, flashes of emotion, of thought and feeling, he could see Dean's essence, the strength, the purity, the flickers of grace from when Castiel and raised him, touched him, he could see all of those things beneath and behind the physical casing, and it was beautiful, wondrous, now…Castiel can no longer see as he once did. He feels blind. He cannot perceive Dean's soul with his grace, because his grace, what had made him Castiel, that is gone. He cannot reach out and brush against Dean soul as he once did; it makes him feel isolated.

"You, uh," Dean interrupts his musings, "you wanna talk about it?"

Castiel is aware that this offer is one that takes effort. Dean does not like to discuss things of an emotional nature, excepting in extreme circumstances. Even so, Castiel is not sure that he wants to divulge the nature of his dreams. There is a common pattern, though repetition, rather than desensitizing him, only makes it worse, and he is not ready to share. He glances to Sam sleeping, somewhat peacefully, and feels a flare of jealousy and nerves. He does not want to talk about his dreams in front of Sam either. He thinks this sensation might be self-consciousness; it is unfamiliar, and, like many other feelings, distasteful.

"No," he replies finally. Dean nods, his jaw is clenched, and Castiel wishes that he could see Dean as he used to, knows that he never will again, and feels a constriction in his chest. He wonders if he might be having a heart attack, but reasons not since there are no other symptoms. Strange that he should even contemplate that possibility, but he has a beating heart now, and it is required to maintain his vitality.

"Don't blame you," Dean affirms. His eyes are spending significantly more time focused on the reflection of Castiel in the mirror than the road. Castiel does not know much about driving as such, but he is relatively certain that this is not the safest way to maintain their course. The intensity of Dean's stare makes Castiel want to squirm slightly, but that only results in pain, so he glances down and away from him instead. When he looks back up, Dean is still gazing at him. Castiel looks back and feels heat rising up his neck. His skin prickles, tingles, completely unrelated to his injuries; it's all extremely odd.

"I have my fair share of nightmares—," Dean continues. Castiel knows that, has intercepted and interrupted and soothed them when he was still capable of entering Dean's dreams to offer comfort. He has seen Dean's nightmares, and they are similar to his own. He wishes that he had the power to save them both. He can see the pain reflected Dean's eyes. He no longer has that gift, and he wonders briefly what use he could possibly be to Dean now.

The hunter finally looks back at the road, and Castiel realizes only when their gaze is broken that he had been holding his breath. Dean's hands clutch the wheel tightly and then unclench, smooth and gentle. Castiel wonders if his cardiorespiratory system is somehow defective because the rapid speeding and slowing and stopping of his lungs and heart cannot possibly normal. He will have to ask Sam about this later; Sam being more knowledgeable of these things, and probably less likely to worry than Dean will.

"—they don't really go away," Castiel does not find that reassuring, but he had not been so foolish to expect that they would; he accepts this as an inevitable part of his punishment, "but, if you change your mind and want to talk about 'em, my door's always open." He raises his brows at Castiel, who recognizes the sincerity of the offer.

"Which door?" he asks.

Dean cracks a smile, and Castiel doesn't get it, but it makes him feel good—Dean's smile, "It's an expression man."

"Oh." Cas tries smiling back, he's unsure if he's doing it right, but Dean's whole posture relaxes in response to it, and Castiel thinks perhaps he's not completely useless if he can still ease Dean on some level, even if he is the cause of the initial distress.

Dean turns up the radio, and Castiel struggles (in vain) to get comfortable. They are driving to New York because Chuck had sent them an email, and, in the wake of Castiel's news from heaven and new human condition, they had had no real other lead, option, or explanation. Travelling and moving, that is what the Winchesters know best. Hitting the road in the Impala was a comfort for Dean especially in the wake of so many life-changing, universe-shaking 'bombshells.' Sam had been willing to go along with it. Castiel honestly had no opinion; he just wanted to go where they went. Bobby had endorsed the venture over the phone (after a long period of profanity and confusion in response to Castiel's condition and news from heaven).

Their progress along the East Coast is slower than it would usually be. This is because of Castiel and everyone knows it. They need to stop and get him moving, change his bandages, make sure he's all right. They're acting like they don't mind much, but Castiel has a harder time reading them with senses he's only half sure how to use. The Winchester brothers' words and body language had always been accompanied by spiritual expression, now they are not. Castiel is struggling to learn this way of seeing and hearing, when he feels more than half deaf and blind.

Castiel was given the backseat because it had the most space for him to spread out. "You'll be more comfortable," Sam had assured him, but Castiel has rarely been comfortable since he fell. Touch is the most confusing sensation of all. Angels are light and energy, for them, touching is metaphysical, spiritual, it is a brushing of grace the interpretation of celestial resonance. Physical sensation of touch is extremely different. It is alien. It is more confusing than anything else (except perhaps the internal grappling of his new soul's emotions, which make Castiel understand, to some degree, why Sam had resisted the reinsertion of his own soul; it is unbelievably erratic and overwhelming).

It hurts, being touched, or perhaps it is because he has never experienced it before. It burns and itches, it is sharp and shocking. All touch is uncomfortable and jarring. His skin is sensitive. He cannot interpret half of what it tries to tell him. God was merciful enough to leave Castiel with enough grace that he could heal more quickly than normal; he was merciful enough to drop Castiel near the Winchesters; not that Castiel mentions these things to Dean, who seems inclined to want to murder Castiel's father. Castiel is not surprised by this, he's not offended, he's almost pleased? But he knows that course of action would end horrifically and therefore does not do anything to kindle those feelings in Dean.

The raw skin on Castiel's back and arms hurts, it aches, it's tight and itchy (which is apparently a sign of healing, but difficult to tolerate). The bandages chafe, but at least they protect his skin from coming into direct contact with anything. He is wearing one of Sam's flannel shirts, because it is large enough that Castiel and all of his layers of gauze and salve and tape could fit comfortably inside without any added pressure or constriction. He's wearing a borrowed pair of Dean's jeans, the least damaged ones, with a belt to keep them from sliding down Castiel's slender hips, and a pair of boxers that Dean said he could keep (something about sharing underwear is apparently unsanitary or taboo or both). He's wearing socks and a spare pair of boots. The collar of his shirt catches at his neck. The boots feel heavy and awkward; the jeans rough and abrasive. The pillow against which he leans adds pressure to his back and it aches, hitting bumps in the road jolt and send reverberations of shock through his body. Castiel laments that he shall never grow accustomed to his humanity and that is part of his punishment, a slow descent into madness, encouraged by sensations that he cannot tolerate, interpret or manage. But he catches Dean looking at him again, feels that odd constriction in his chest, and realizes suddenly that the Winchesters won't let that happen. He's grateful.

Dean puts in a cassette when the station they had been listening to goes to commercial; Castiel is soothed by the rhythm of the music. He is used to hearing the Host, the deafening silence that has been left in the wake of his fall longs to be filled. Sam wakes shortly thereafter.

"Mornin', sunshine," Dean greets.

"Asshat," Sam retorts, and Dean smiles proudly. Castiel understands that the boys are speaking a vernacular of English that belongs solely to them.

"Delaware?"

"Maryland."

"Nice," Sam yawns, turning in his seat to look at Castiel.

"How are you feeling?" Sam's kindness and concern are apparent and obvious. He's much easier to read than his brother. It astounds Castiel more every day that someone with such a generous spirit could be the handpicked vessel of Lucifer.

Castiel is running out of words to describe his situation, "Disoriented."

Sam frowns, "Are you dizzy? Do you feel sick?"

Castiel tilts his head, "No."

Sam seems to get that Castiel is referring to a state of being, rather than a strictly physical condition. Perhaps he can relate from the period of time immediately following his re-ensoulment.

"Maybe we should stop soon?" Sam directs this to Dean.

"You hungry, Cas?" Dean asks.

Castiel considers this question, "I think…maybe?"

Sam smiles encouragingly, and Dean nods, "Good enough for me."

Castiel's first meal had been waffles. They had been…good, he supposes. He didn't really have a basis for comparison. Sam had decided that bland was the best route to take when introducing Castiel's new body to food. He had also forced Castiel to take several multi-vitamin supplements. Dean had rolled his eyes and muttered something about Sam trying to convert Castiel; Sam had replied that he was just making sure that Castiel had the proper nutrients, "he doesn't need to get scurvy on top of everything else; and I'm not going to let someone whose idea of a well-balanced diet is pie and cheeseburgers determine his eating patterns." Dean had muttered that "pies have fruit." Castiel had been too tired to really participate, but he had slowly and mechanically chewed and swallowed what he had been given and everyone seemed relieved when his stomach didn't reject any of it. Castiel felt satiated after eating, and realized some of his previous uneasiness had been due to hunger. He contemplated that bemusedly, and was exceedingly grateful that he had not, as Dean had feared, 'blown chunks,' as that sounded very unpleasant.

Tonight, they find a motel. Pick up some food on the way. Get settled, eat. Castiel decides that waffles are better than cereal, but he very much likes pineapple. It tastes sweet and sharp. His face must show his astonishment, because Dean smiles and laughs. Sam grins too.

He offers them some, and Dean accepts a piece, popping it in his mouth with a wink. Sam seems surprised to see Dean eating fruit without a pastry casing, and tells Castiel that he should enjoy the rest of it on his own.

Castiel muses that such a rough exterior should contain such bright sweetness. He looks at Dean when he says it, and the hunter's cheeks take on a red hue. Blushing, Dean is blushing. Castiel turns to Sam confused, but Sam just turns a laugh into a cough and smiles somewhat knowingly at Castiel. Castiel thinks he's missing something, but he feels like that most of the time lately, so he lets it pass.

Dean goes to call Bobby from the corridor, and Sam helps Castiel with his bandages, and directs the former angel to the bathroom to shower. Castiel washes himself, slowly and meticulously, unsure if he likes or dislikes the sensation of the hot water and steam on his naked skin. He marvels at his muscles and his flesh and the sensation of touch, wonders if he will ever become accustomed to it. Castiel scrubs every inch of his body, slowly and carefully. He gets shampoo in his eyes, which burns fiercely and leaves him sputtering. When he dries himself (again meticulously) always mindful of the new skin of his back and arms, he puts on the sweatpants that Sam had lent him. They are far too long, but they are loose and therefore more tolerable than any other clothing he's worn.

Dean is waiting for him when he exits the bathroom.

"Hey," he says, eyes roving over Castiel's bare torso before looking away. Castiel cocks his head in puzzlement.

"Where is Sam?"

"Supply run," Dean is looking at Castiel again, and Castiel feels hot suddenly, though his skin is chilled, "Feelin' better?"

"I feel clean."

Dean rolls his eyes, "Close enough. All right, let's take a look."

Castiel walks over and sits next to Dean on the bed. Dean bites his bottom lip and makes a spinning motion with his hand. Castiel turns so that his back is presented to the hunter. He ducks his head slightly.

"It's healin' nice, Cas," Dean assures him, his voice is low and gentle. Castiel knows that it will never really heal. He knows that his back is by no means what humans or angels would consider 'beautiful,' he is disfigured body and soul.

"I'm gonna touch you now," Dean almost whispers, voice low and gruff; he knows that Castiel is unsure and broken, and he is tender with him, like Castiel is precious. It is very confusing for him. "Okay?"

Castiel feels the tightness in his chest again. He really should see a physician if this continues. "All right."

Dean takes the medicated lotion into his calloused hands and gently begins to rub it into the scars of Castiel's back. Castiel feels Dean's touch all throughout his body and it makes him twitch. He wants to flee from it because it burns, but he also wants to lean into the fire. He experiences something akin to what he imagines is the 'fight or flight' response, though the situation is not dangerous and does not merit such a reaction. He reacts somewhere in between the two extremes and convulses sharply and then relaxes when Dean's hands continue to move in smooth, methodic circles across his exposed skin. Dean pauses whenever Castiel flinches and makes sure that he's all right. Castiel is far from all right but doesn't know what's wrong and so he tells Dean to continue, and Dean complies.

Dean is always the one to do this. Castiel imagines that with Sam this experience would be significantly different. When his back has been given a firm coating of lotion, and Dean has kneaded his muscles enough to ease the stiffness and aches, he gently applies gauze and tapes it into place.

"All right, turn around," Castiel obeys moving to face Dean and settling into a cross-legged position on the bed, "Ready?"

Castiel nods, and Dean begins his ministrations on Castiel's arms. He starts at the crook of Castiel's elbow and works his way slowly down his forearm. The outside of Castiel's arms are more badly scarred than his back, and there is no grace left so they are healing at a more natural pace. The insides of his arms though, are unmarked and smooth. The ointment stings in the wounds, and Castiel winces though he tries to hold still. Deans thumb brushes against the pulse-point of Castiel's wrist, where the skin is smooth, unblemished, and sensitive, and Castiel feels a jolt, a stuttering of his heart, a flutter and warmth in his abdomen, and he knows that it's Dean that is causing that; it feels odd, but good. Castiel wants to feel it again.

Dean is pointedly not looking at Castiel's face, while he continues to soothe his injuries. The absence of his gaze is strange after so much intense staring. The air feels thick. Castiel does not understand what is happening.

Dean softly takes Castiel's hand into his, rubbing lotion into the wounds on his knuckles and ghosting his fingers along his palm. Castiel feels the strangest desire to hold onto Dean's hand—warm and slicked with ointment, trained to kill and yet moving so gently so carefully—and keep it there. He resists that compulsion.

Dean does the other arm and hand, and Castiel has trouble holding still. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Dean wraps his arms in bandages, gauze, and tape, and helps Castiel into one of Sam's flannel shirts. Castiel struggles with the buttons, difficult to manage with his gauze wrapped fingers.

"Let me," Dean's voice is several octaves lower than usual. Castiel shivers when Dean starts to do them up, one at a time, "You cold?" He frowns. Castiel is if anything, much warmer than he has any right to be, he feels like his face is burning.

"No." Dean glances up at Castiel's expression, and smiles softly, mouth tilting up at the corners, soft, sweet, full. Castiel feels it again, constriction, heat, a flutter of his heart. Fight or flight.

Sam comes back in, and Dean clears his throat, shakes his head, and continues with the buttoning more swiftly. Castiel feels a rush of disappointment and anger, which makes no sense, directed at Sam, who has done nothing but bring home more medical supplies and food for the road.

Sam takes one bed, and Dean says that he'll crash in a chair, but Castiel does not want that and he pleadingly looks at Dean.

Dean rolls his eyes, glares at Sam, "He gets that from you."

Sam smiles smugly. He crashes hard into his bed, face pressed into his pillow. Castiel lies on his side of the bed, and Dean lays beside him. Castiel feels better for the proximity.

"Thank you, Dean," he whispers in the dark.

Dean looks at him and his face is inscrutable, masked in shadow, but Castiel feels like he can see him like he used to, soul shining through the green of his eyes, the gentleness of his touch, "No big deal, Cas."

They both know what a big deal it is.

"Try to get some sleep," Dean says. He hesitates for a moment and then reaches out and lays his hand gently on Cas' cheek. It feels like a benediction. Castiel reaches to touch the back of Dean's hand, but the hunter moves back before he can. "I'll be here if you have a bad dream, okay?"

They both know that Castiel will; and Castiel knows that Dean will be there for him when it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the first chapter that I have ever written from Cas' POV. I pray to god that I did not fuck it up too badly, because I love Cas and I would not want to put his perspective to shame. Fun fact: the whole 'Dean bandaging Cas up' scene, was not supposed to be that detailed, but the boys apparently had other plans: Team Free Will, and all that jazz. Also, yes, the chapter title is a Springsteen lyric...these things happen.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and reviewing and following this story. You guys are absolutely incredibly. I'd love to hear what you think of this latest installment.


	7. With a Chance to Make It Good Somehow

Sam's waiting for the inevitable explosion. He feels like he's been doing that more than usual lately. It's been three days since Cas woke up. Three days of slowly making their way up the East Coast on a tip from Chuck, and Sam has never seen his brother drive so slowly, stop so often. Three days of trying to get the fallen angel to eat and checking on his injuries, of Dean being unbelievably attentive and protective, of Cas being freakishly quiet except for when he wakes up screaming at night. Dean is good at taking care of other people, way better than he is at taking care of himself. Sam should know. His brother was basically his mother and father the whole time that they were growing up (not that he would ever phrase it that way to Dean for fear of getting punched). Even so, the level of care that he's giving to the newly fallen angel is pretty damn impressive. Dean though, well, he is tense as hell, and trying to hide it, drown it out: worry, anxiety, whatever.

Sam is walking on eggshells, trying to support Dean and Cas…but, see, ostensibly Cas' consciousness came with the general announcement that hunting is…well, basically finished. Angels are stuck in heaven, demons in hell, monsters have been sent packing to Purgatory (at least the blood-thirsty ones). Turns out Bobby's prediction of 'world peace' wasn't exactly that far off the mark (at least, not as far as the supernatural is concerned, humans are a whole different story).

Bobby had actually been surprisingly nonchalant about the whole thing when they'd called him with an update. After fifteen minutes of cussing and interrogation, he's settled on 'well, if the man upstairs says it's time for me to buy a condo and move to Miami, I ain't gonna argue with him.' Dean had looked like someone had smacked him the face with a frying pan at that pronouncement; whether from the image of Bobby in a speedo or Mr. "Paranoid Bastard's" sudden willingness to go with the flow, Sam is still not sure. He had laughed and tried to cover it quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid Dean's glare of doom. Sam is cautiously optimistic about the whole thing (after all, it's everything he's ever wanted), but simultaneously waiting to get sucked into some kind of hell dimension when they get wherever it is they're going.

Cas is stoic and silent. He seems to still be in a lot of pain even though his injuries are healing well. He keeps staring: into the distance, out the window, at his hands, at Dean…he looks at Dean a lot, though never when Dean is looking at him. How they keep avoiding eye contact while simultaneously staring at each other all the damn time is one of the great mystery of the universe (and, given the sheer volume of recent universal mysteries, that's saying something considerable).

Sam tries to get Cas to talk (it's Sam's MO), and the angel responds, but he doesn't seem to be particularly engaged by anything Sam has to say. He is generally pretty zoned out, and Sam attributes that to shock and the transition period (there isn't exactly a guidebook that outlines the healing process of an angel turned human with acute PTSD and celestial injuries). So Sam is going to follow his gut, and its present ruling is that it's still early days—Castiel fell less than a week ago. He's concerned, but he's not too worried about it yet (not as much as Dean is). Castiel is dealing with a lot right now, and it's probably a very difficult to process. Sam assumes that Cas has a really large frame of reference for dealing with heavenly maladies, but he has no framework for understanding the human perspective of this—physical, emotional, psychological. It's gotta be pretty damn overwhelming for him. Sam can only compare it to his experience of getting his soul back—which was a delightfully traumatic romp—he has the nightmares and memories to prove it, and he sincerely hopes that it's not that bad for Cas. Watching Cas continually twitch and shudder at innocuous touches (which gives Dean this unbearably wounded expression for a split second before he hides it), stare into space during his waking hours, and scream at nightmares that only Dean can bring him back from…well, it doesn't bode well.

Sam figures his best strategy is to be supportive and give Castiel some time to come around on his own before they really start to get freaked out, stage an intervention, and start looking for supernatural solutions. That's how he usually deals with his prickly brother when Dean is having an emotional life crisis infused with angst. Of course, Dean usually makes Sam force the issue (or call Bobby in to broach whatever the problem is). Sam narrows his eyes at the horizon, somehow he doesn't think that it will come to that with Castiel…he hopes not anyway, maybe the angel has more perspective from millennia of watching humans be idiots and close observation of the Winchesters (paragons of emotional stability and psychological health that they are) to realize that the 'bottle it up till it explodes in your face' strategy is not the best one.

Speaking of his brother, Dean…well as far as Sam can tell, Dean either hasn't put two and two together (which is really unlikely because Dean is smart and strategic), or he's refusing to acknowledge what the end of hunting might mean. Dean puts on a good show, he's internalized John's 'hunting is everything' mentality (Sam, in case you did not know this, took Psychology and Human Development in college, so he knows what he's talking about; not to mention that he's been obsessively studying his brother since he was four), but secretly, Dean has wanted a normal life for a long time. Now that that might, kind of, sort of, technically be possible, Sam is fully prepared for his brother to go on an insane self-sabotaging streak or have a nervous breakdown. Or both. Both are likely. Looking out for Cas is the only thing that's really holding that at bay for the present. Well, that and the fact that they have a 'mission' from the prophet: some random address in New York and the promise of an 'epilogue,' whatever the hell that means. Those are postponing what Sam expects will be a full scale implosion, complete with self-destructive alcoholism, passive suicidal tendencies, a really bad attitude, and sudden outbursts of violence. That's what he would have anticipated in days gone by. Dean doesn't really do change, he doesn't like change, change is associated with bad things, and he's so scared of it that he will bolt the first chance he gets…Sam glances at his brother's stony face, and then back at Cas, dozing in the back seat, and wonders if having Cas around might turn this whole thing into a wild card scenario…it has so far.

They're nearing their destination, according to directions Sam printed off. They should be there, wherever exactly there is, by late this afternoon.

They made provisions for basically anything. There is always the off chance that this is a trap, but Sam doesn't have the feeling he gets when he's going into a hunt: a sort of cold focus. He feels something different; anticipation maybe or even excitement. It's been a really long time since he's felt anything remotely resembling that. There is something like possibility in the air, and he can sense it, in spite of Dean's tense attitude.

Providence, NY is a small town, like so many others that the brothers have seen across the country. Nestled in the mountains, it's got that old school vibe, like it's settled in, been here for longer: in the normal course of events that would trigger immediate concerns about ghosts tied to local history, but today, not so much. Sam gazes out the windows at the center of town: cafes, grocery stores, bookshops, a library, restaurants, a town hall. It's scenic, quaint, quiet. The sun is shining, families and couples are walking down the street, a dog barks. Sam takes it in calmly, but Dean's whole face has hardened, like this place is extremely suspicious if not outright dangerous.

"Might be time to wake sleeping beauty back there," Dean says shooting a look at Cas in the rearview mirror.

Sam turns in his seat, and very, very, very gently touches Cas' shoulder, "Hey, Cas, we're almost there."

Cas, unsurprisingly, startles awake, jerks away from Sam's hand, all wild eyes and terrified, disoriented expression.

Sam pulls his hand back, hovering an inch or two from Cas' shoulder, ready to brace him in case he should suddenly try to jump out of the moving vehicle.

"Woah, hey," Sam says, "It's okay."

"Cas, you all right?" Dean turns to regard him quickly.

Dean's voice catches Cas' attention; it orients him to the present, so when he looks at Sam again, he seems less likely to run.

"Sam?" he asks, like he needs to confirm this fact.

"Yeah, man," he replies, comfortingly, "Yeah, it's me. We're almost there."

Castiel nods, but it's probably going to take him a few minutes to process where exactly 'there' is.

"Cas?" Dean prompts.

"I'm fine," Cas replies before going quiet and staring out the window.

Sam turns around and shares a look with Dean.

They continue the drive in silence.

The directions take them outside of the town center, towards the mountains that surround it. They pass residential neighborhoods and eventually turn off onto a gravel road. It winds on an incline through a copse of trees; wherever this place is, it's set back and private, removed from prying eyes. Sam considers the pros and cons of that. If something angelic, demonic, monstrous, or otherwise otherworldly is going to go down, at least they should be able to prevent collateral damage to civilians; on the downside, hard to find addresses are usually setups. Sam knows that Dean is thinking the same things, judging by the calculating expression on his face. As for Castiel, well, Sam isn't sure if he's aware of too much right now, he looks very placid, almost blank.

The trees start to thin out ahead and they come into a clearing. Dean pulls to a stop, brow furrowed.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

"It's a house," Sam replies, frowning. Because it is; two stories, rustic, made of stone and wood, shutters closed tight, huge front porch.

"Why the hell would Chuck send us all the way to New York to check out a house?"

Sam shrugs, "Haunting maybe?"

Dean cocks his head, but Castiel interjects, tonelessly, "God laid all the restless spirits to rest."

Sam gives him a look, and Dean licks his lips and sighs, "Awesome." Dean often uses the same words or phrases such that interpreting his true meaning depends entirely on inflection and context. 'Awesome' is one of those words; for instance, in the context of pie, 'awesome' is genuinely meant; in this particular example, the intonation is drier and more sarcastic than Sam has ever heard it, and he has heard is fair share of dry and sarcastic 'awesome's from Dean.

"Let's check it out," Dean half groans.

They all pile out of the Impala. Sam and Dean grab guns and knives from the trunk. Sam is loading his 45 when he sees Dean hesitate before handing a gun to Cas.

"You know how to use this?" He asks, gruffly, like he resents having to put a weapon in Cas' hand. Some really immature part of Sam wants to tease his big brother, 'aww, you're trying to protect him," but he really doesn't want a broken nose; another, more mature and sensitive part of him, finds the exchange touching, but also ironic because Dean is uncomfortable with putting a gun in the hands of a being who has been a warrior for all of eternity.

"I'll manage," Castiel responds, holding the weapon loosely at his side. Dean sighs, and Sam slams the trunk.

"Let's go."

There are no cars besides the Impala, and the gravel road they drove up to get here was devoid of recent track marks; the house doesn't look like it's been lived in for a while, but it does look quite old.

They climb the steps of the porch, Dean in the lead, Sam in the middle, Cas bringing up the rear. Dean peers at the front door, but Sam is momentarily distracted by a flash of sunlight reflecting off wind chimes hanging from the awning. What the—?

"Enochian sigils," Cas supplies, catching Sam's gaze. The flutes of the chime are covered with angelic writing, the charms hanging in the center are comprised of various types of wards against evil, made of silver and iron.

"What the hell?" Sam frowns.

"Dude," Dean says and inclines his head towards the door frame. Sam and Castiel both come over to look. From a distance, it just appears to be decorative carving in the wood, but up close—

"Angel Mad Libs?" Dean cocks an eyebrow at Cas.

"I don't know what that means," Castiel's face clearly states that 'I have literally been human for a week, half of which I have been unconscious, some understanding would be appreciated in regards to your incessant desire to intentionally employ language that I do not comprehend.' Apparently, Dean can read that as easily as Sam because he clears his throat somewhat guiltily.

"However," Cas continues, "these marking are angel warding magic."

The same marks are inlaid in the banisters of the porch, the railing, subtly, almost beautifully actually. You have to appreciate the amount of craftsmanship that went into this.

"What are they warding against?" Sam finally asks.

"Everything," Castiel replies.

Dean just blinks. That's damn impressive. He and Sam share a look, a nod, and then open the door.

There is an inlay of salt along the doorframe, set in glass.

"Who the hell lives here?" Sam breathes, only this time Cas doesn't seem to have a ready answer.

The house is shadowed. Furniture covered in sheets, layered in dust.

Dean makes a circular motion with his finger, and Sam nods. They split up to search the house. Dean goes to check the upstairs and Cas follows him, while Sam goes to check out the basement.

He proceeds cautiously down the stairs, but there is nothing lurking in the shadows. The space is cool, but not damp; it's stocked with weapons and food stores, old furniture that clearly has been unused even longer than the sofas and chairs in the sitting room upstairs. There are boxes and crates, neatly stacked along the walls, some with protective markings, some without, but all are clearly organized, and tightly sealed. There is a power generator and a fuse box. Sam fiddles with them until the power comes on, and then goes back to the first floor—he will return to the basement later and realize that, much like Bobby's panic room, the foundations have been coated in iron and salt.

On the ground level, there is a living room, a study, a bathroom, a dining room. All of the windows and doorways have salt set into the frames, all of them are lined with the same protective markings that they saw when they entered. Sam pries opens one of the wooden shutters, finagling with the complicated latch, and realizes that they're made of ash and rowan, the fastenings done in silver. His eyebrows almost reach his hairline; that is some serious protective mojo. Really, who the hell lives here?

Summer sunlight illuminates the room, falling across a patch of hardwood floor. Sam narrows his eyes and leans to look more closely; if you didn't know what to look for, you would miss it, but the hardwood floor is in the pattern of small devils' traps. His curiosity is piqued, building to a point of almost unbearable suspense. Like an itch he needs to scratch. He wants to get to the bottom of this. Why the hell would Chuck send them here? A safe house? A rendezvous point? Clearly whoever owns this place has some serious knowledge of the supernatural, and knows how to work powerful mojo, good mojo; it's like Glinda the good witch went to town decorating a magical house for hunters…

Sam's last stop on the mystery tour is the kitchen. It's cleaner, more lived in, but just as empty. The wooden table is uncovered, but there's no dust, there is, however, an envelope and a sheaf of papers. Sam scowls, dropping into a chair and pulling them closer, as he starts to read them, his eyes going wide in response to their contents. He hears Cas and Dean come down the stairs.

"Sam?" Dean calls out.

"In here."

Cas pokes his head cautiously around the doorjamb, and Dean follows more assertively.

"Well?"

"Nada," Dean says, "three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a library. No ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, vamps, demons, angels; it's clean."

"You will like the library," Cas assures Sam solemnly.

"It's killer," Dean nods, and Sam's almost positive that he's being serious. Under other circumstances, he would be booking it up the stairs, but this is more pressing.

"So what'd you dig up?"

"Nothing weird, this place is tricked out with protection symbols."

"Upstairs, too."

Castiel interjects, "This place is protected by the strongest wards humanly possible."

"Right," Dean agrees, impressed, but skeptical, "So, what's our theory? Martha Stewart took some home décor tips from Bobby…I mean, seriously, who lives here?"

"Well, uh, that's the thing," Sam pushes the papers towards Dean, "Apparently, we do."

"What?"

Sam shrugs, "It's all there, notarized, legit, deed's in our names, ours and Cas'."

"How the fuck did we get a house?" Dean shuffles through the papers, glaring like they did him a great personal wrong.

"According to this, we inherited it."

"A house?"

"A house."

"Who the fuck would leave us a house?" Sam can hear the thoughts rattling around behind his brother's strained, incredulous face: they don't know anyone whose life was untouched enough to have anything to leave them beyond guilt and regret.

Sam's head is starting to ache, "Someone named Rebekah Mason."

"Who the fuck is Rebekah Mason?"

Sam shrugs; he wishes that Dean would stop asking questions that he obviously doesn't have the answer to. He has no clue who Rebekah Mason is, but, apparently, Cas does, "Your paternal grandmother."

"Our what?"

Castiel blinks, he had been peering curiously at the oven, but now he turns to face Dean and Sam's flummoxed expressions.

"Your paternal grandmother," he repeats.

"And you're just bringing this up now?!"

"It was not of import before."

"The hell it—" Dean bites his lip, takes a deep breath, may or may not silently count to ten, "Cas, why did our dead grandma leave us a house with supernatural mojo out the ass?"

Castiel frowns, perhaps puzzled by the phrasing of the question, then he explains. He tells them that how John Winchester—and by extension Sam and Dean—was descended from the most elite supernatural scholars. How both of his parents were members of a secret society, the keepers of this knowledge on earth. How when John's biological father, Henry, went missing as part of a ritual, and the majority of the organization was destroyed, John's mother, Rebekah, made the decision to remove John from the life to protect him, until he came of age ("well, that really worked out great for him," Dean spits dripping sarcasm. "Dean," Sam censures). She died in a car crash when John was seventeen, his step father never knew, and the knowledge was lost.

"So," Dean's whole body is tense, "You're telling me that we're the French chick in the fucking supernatural da vinci code?"

Castiel looks totally baffled. Sam glares at Dean and then sighs, "Well, I guess it makes sense."

"What?" Dean retorts.

"What cupid said about heaven hooking up mom and dad: the Campbells and the Winchesters, the brains and the brawn," he pauses, "I guess that's how you know about this, Cas?"

"Your genealogy is widely known amongst the host," he replies, still toneless. Sam is staring to suspect that Cas is going to maintain an eerie calm until he completely snaps one day…it's worrying him.

"So why the hell do we get this now? It's not like grandma just kicked the bucket yesterday, she's been dead for goin' on fifty plus years here."

"There was also this," Sam hands Dean the envelope.

It's addressed to the three of them, inside there are two things: a check from Chuck's publishing house for a sum of money that makes Dean's eyes fly wide; it's accompanied by a note that reads, "Retirement Fund. Enjoy the epilogue."

Dean is silent for a full minute, and Sam braces his hands against the table top.

"What the actual fuck?" Dean spits murderously.

"I don't know, man," Sam replies, treading carefully. Cas is watching them both with something like anxiety on his face. Sam is becoming increasingly certain that Cas is taking his emotional cues from Dean and that is a truly disturbing thought.

"I mean, what? Did Chuck fucking know that all this was gonna go down? Did he know about Cas and not tell us? Because a little fucking warning would have been nice," Dean is ranting and the tension in the room is thick and palpable. Sam knows that this more than anything else is what's really upsetting him.

"Dude, I know as much as you do," Sam opens his hands to the side in surrender, "but Cas is here, we're here, supernatural shit is on lock down, and I'm pretty sure that Chuck left us a house and a 'normal life' fund."

"And, that's not suspicious to you at all?" Sam hasn't seen Dean this dubious of his sanity since the Ruby debacle.

Sam rolls his eyes, "Of course it's suspicious," he glances at Cas, who very quietly observes this exchange, "but if it's a trap or a hoax or whatever, it's pretty fucking elaborate…I don't know…"

"What?"

"After everything we've been through, maybe, we should just take it."

Dean glares, "Sam—"

Sam perseveres though, doesn't let his brother cut him off, "Haven't we earned it, Dean? A shot at apple pie…all of us." He lets his eyes flick quickly to Cas and watches as Dean follows the motion, and then he gives his brother the strongest puppy eyes he can muster because after everything—yellow eyes, mom, dad, Jess, life on the road, their sacrificed childhoods, their lives, Cas' grace, Ellen, Jo, Anna, the fucking apocalypse, hell—they do deserves this, they deserve a chance for something better, a do over, a second chance. It's scary as hell—the idea of normal, the idea of settling—more terrifying than Lucifer breathing down their necks, but they need to do this. For everyone they've lost, for everything they've lost, for Cas, for each other, for themselves. Dean can see that in Sam's face, can read him like a book, can feel the thoughts flying through the air at him. He looks implacable, but Sam knows that he's processing. Dean glances at Cas, who is regarding the floor, he looks back at Sam. He's glowering, his face is unyielding, but Sam can feel the moment when he caves just a bit, just enough. Sam has to forcibly restrain himself from punching the air in triumph, maintain a poker face.

He sighs, "I guess we can spend the weekend at grandma's while we figure this shit out. Free room and board anyway…"

Sam's smile is tentative and unsteady and he has to keep it from filling his whole face, "Okay."

"Cas, you cool with that?" Dean asks. His tone is one that Sam recognizes as trying to bury something important in flippancy.

Cas regards Sam, who grins reassuringly, and then Dean, with whom he shares that freaky profound bond stare that they have, before nodding slowly, "I approve of that plan."

"Well then, that's settled," Dean says, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders unconsciously, like he wants this, but he's trying to protect himself from it. Sam is struck suddenly with the realization that Dean has never really had a home, not since he was a small child, and it went up in flames. The shifty looks that he keeps shooting at Sam and Cas, tell him clearly that he's terrified of letting himself settle into something that can be snatched away again so easily. Sam would reach out to Dean, but that's just not how they are, so he sighs.

"I guess we should make this place a little more fit for human habitation," he points out.

Dean looks appraisingly at the walls, windows, cabinets, and floors, "You know, for a house that's been abandoned for more than fifty years, this place is in pretty damn good shape."

"The wards," Castiel interjects, impassively.

"What about them?" Dean looks prepared for the news that they've crashed and a hellmouth has been unleashed over their heads.

"They protect against everything," Castiel continues, and Dean relaxes slightly, "not just the supernatural, but the natural—decay, fire, pests—it was meant to be a safe house."

Dean seems subtly reassured by the news that the house is fire proof, and, honestly, Sam relaxes once again at the promise that it's demon proof. Dean is still tense and wary; mistrust and unease coming off him in waves. But Cas' comment catches Dean's attention and the hunter is taking in Cas' pallor, his slightly sweaty brow, and the way he's leaning one arm on the counter top for support. He looks back to Sam, who knows that if it weren't for Cas they would probably continue this argument indefinitely, winding down some dark and twisted psychological roads, dredging up old wounds, and inflicting some new ones. As it is, Dean's distracted by Cas' injuries and exhaustion. He gives Sam a nod that promises a continuation of this argument, and Sam shrugs because he would expect no less.

"Well, in that case," he shoots a conciliatory grin at the fallen angel, "Cas, what d'you say we go find you a room and get you settled, huh?"

"Is there a hidden room that we should be looking for?" He looks confused.

"Just c'mon."

Sam rolls his eyes as he watches Dean lead Cas upstairs. His brother is still freaked out by change, trying to bury his worries in caring for Cas and forced levity, but the dam is going to break and soon. He sighs heavily and walks into the living room, opens another shutter, and lets the light stream into the house—his house. It's a weird phrase, but he thinks he could get used to it. A small smile steals over his features without any conscious effort; it's loose and easy, like a gesture long forgotten from another life.

"You comin', Sammy?" Dean calls, "Move your ass or you're gonna hafta to sleep in the library."

"Perhaps Sam would prefer that arrangement?" Cas' voice is quieter, and he can hear Dean laugh. It's the first time he's heard that sound in what feels like forever.

Sam's smile grows a little broader in response, and he shakes his head, mounting the stairs two at a time, heading towards the sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks! Thanks for taking the time to read and review this story! You are all awesome and I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter!
> 
> A couple of notes:
> 
> I'm keeping the Men of Letters storyline intact. It makes a lot of sense to me and I like it. I have however included my own headcanon, which will probably be blown out of the water before too long, that Grandma Winchester was also a Woman of Letters. It just seems to make sense to me. Honestly, I was frustrated that we never learned her name or anything about her. I was also annoyed that the Men of Letters, a thousand + year old organization didn't have a better contingency plan for dealing with demon invasion or making sure that the next generation got the info. I allowed myself to accept with the caveat that Grandma Winchester was also involved and decided to protect John and the legacy by going underground after Henry disappeared. Please, roll with me on that one.
> 
> Providence, NY is a made up place, based on several towns that I've been to in NY/PA/NJ. I apologize to any Providence, NY that may actually exist, for stealing your name.
> 
> Sam quotes "As Time Goes By" in this chapter, just a couple of years early, obviously, those words are not my own, credit to the SPN writers.
> 
> More Springsteen lyrics for the chapter title. What even?
> 
> Thanks again everyone! Hugs and love! More soon!


	8. How Many Special People Change?

Their weekend at Grandma’s quickly turns into a week. When they told Bobby about Chuck and the house, his response was something to the effect of, “Well what the hell do you want me to do, buy you a damn Ficus?” Sam had laughed, but Dean had muttered, ‘forget the plant and send some damn whiskey…,” Cas had seemed intrigued by the idea of a potted plant as a welcome gift, and, since Cas has shown little interest in much of anything lately, Dean seriously considered going to a garden store and buying him every damn fern and flower in stock. 

Bobby promised to make the drive out as soon as “these damned idjits pull their head out their asses far enough to see what’s in front of their damn faces.” Hunters seem to be collectively freaking out about the whole post-apocalyptic, post-demonic, world. Sam and Dean are under the impression that it’s driving Bobby more insane than normal hunting business ever did, and that he’s actually looking forward to getting away from the phones for a few days. 

Staying in one place throughout Cas’ healing process—his adjustment process—seems like the best course of action, and, though Dean is basically hard wired to run, to keep moving, to never settle or stay, he has to concede that driving aimlessly around when there’s no reason, forcing Cas to suffer in the backseat of the Impala while he deals with PTSD dreams and phantom-wing syndrome and the very real marks on his back when they have a legitimate alternative…well, he can’t excuse it. Even if there was a case and they had to be on the road, looking at Cas’ strained face, and Sam’s puppy eyes, would pretty quickly cause Dean to relent and set up a home base. 

One stipulation of the whole staying in one place thing is that they don’t leave Cas alone in the house…ever. It’s Dean’s idea, but Sam agrees pretty readily. The older Winchester had expected more of a protest, but Sam had shrugged, “He’s not exactly stable right now.” Dean didn’t need the reminder. Both brothers watch Cas through narrowed eyes, and they don’t directly call their mission a suicide watch, but it’s not too different from the time Dean had been on the verge of saying yes to Michael…

Dean is not going to admit it to anyone anytime soon (if ever), but having his own room, having a place to call home, it’s kind of awesome...in a surreal and vaguely terrifying sort of way. Dean barely let’s himself think about it, lest he invite in some kind of insane disaster. He channels his confusion and frustration into leaving increasingly complex threatening messages on Chuck’s voicemail (they’re more colorful every day; Dean’s really proud of some of them; though Sam chastens him for threating to rip the prophet’s finger nails out “dude, he gave us several thousand dollars and a house” “and a lot of unanswered questions”), worrying about Cas, tolerating Sam’s tentative enthusiasm, and doing some serious home repairs. 

Okay, maybe not that serious. The sigils, protective magic, whatever, they’ve sheltered the house from termites, floods, fire, rot. It’s in pretty damn good condition. The problem is more in the fact that no one has lived here for almost seventy five years, and a lot of stuff is outdated. It’s no contest between them that Dean is the best with mechanics and Sam the best with tech. Cas is…well, they’re not really sure what his skill set is yet, but so far it includes neither mechanics nor tech. He’s staying alive, hasn’t tried to off himself, or gone completely insane yet, and Dean will gladly take that for now. God knows, those are skills that take some serious damn effort. 

The first night, after Dean had replaced Cas’ bandages, and the angel had fallen asleep in his new room, the brothers had outlined what they needed in order of importance. It was freaking bizarre creating this domestic life shopping list. Dean had made sure they both had several fingers of whiskey to steady them through. Thankfully, great-grandma or grandpa Mason had laid away some damn good liquor. They drink a silent toast to them in absentia. 

The boys decide that the serious appliances should come first, and, since Cas is in no fit state to be alone, they plan to take it in shifts. While Dean is out on the first day, getting the biggies and groceries, Sam and Cas work to clean up the place. Scrubbing floors and windows, sweeping; it’s methodic, almost meditative, and it’s good for Cas’ muscles and the new skin on his back. Physical therapy through practical skills is a tried and true lesson of the Winchesters’ upbringing, when there wasn’t the time or opportunity to stop completely to regain strength and dexterity. 

Dean is weird about leaving Cas alone with Sam. It’s not like he doesn’t trust his little brother to look after the guy—it’s just that some irrational (and maybe selfish?) part of him feels like Sam just can’t take care of Cas as well as Dean can. He knows it’s ridiculous and childish, but he can’t shake it. It doesn’t help that, even as Castiel continues to progress physically, he seems to become more withdrawn by the day. He spends a great majority of his time in his bedroom—he chose the tiniest one with a sloping roof, and Dean immediately chose the one across from it, regardless of its size, because he wanted to be close to Cas, just in case—or sitting on the steps of the front porch gazing into the distance. 

Dean must make some kind of pained face when he goes to leave on their second day—he knows that he’s staring in the direction of Cas’ closed door—because Sam reminds him that “we’ll be fine, dude, relax,” before herding Dean out the front door. 

Dean opens a bank account in their names, which, that’s just damn weird. Some things that they need he gets second or third hand (Dean hates shopping, but what’re you gonna do?) like the washer and dryer. Some things he gets brand new, but he haggles and bargains, gets good deals, not that they need to worry about skimping pennies right now—begrudgingly thanks to Chuck—but saving for the inevitable rainy day never hurt anyone. He buys new faucets and replaces some pipes, installs the new refrigerator and stove, makes sure the electrical fixtures and wiring are good. It’s a gradual process

While Dean is shopping, Sam and Cas clean—their first run through the house doesn’t take too long, they work mostly in silence. Sam finds more family memorabilia in the attic. There are boxes that he doesn’t have the time right now to go through; pictures of long gone relatives, throw rugs, with subtle, downright artistically woven, protective signs and marks from cultures all over the world and some beyond it (Sam and Cas lay them out in the living room and the upstairs hallway, the latter explaining their origins in detail). They draw a devil’s trap in paint before laying down a welcome mat because you can’t be too careful. Sam studiously avoids the library mostly because his jaw had dropped when he’d seen it yesterday, and his hands physically ached to touch the volumes it contains, and he knows that it would take weeks, if not months, to even begin to broach the contents. As much as it pains him, he recognizes that basic human needs of food and shelter will have to take center stage until they are fully settled—at which point Sam can disappear into the library and not resurface for days. Dean can tell whenever Sam is having a ‘library wet dream’ because his eyes go unfocused and he smiles dazedly at nothing. He takes the opportunity to tease Sam about it, and blushes and shifts uncomfortably when Castiel inevitably asks what the phrase ‘wet-dream’ refers to. Dean’s discomfort at the question feels like divine retribution to Sam, who grins broadly (until forced to explain).

When Dean comes back, and gets to work, Cas becomes his quiet shadow, watching his every move as if it’s endlessly fascinating. He hands Dean’s tools when he asks for them—though this process takes somewhat longer than Dean going it alone, because Cas doesn’t know which tool is which (or he does, but not necessarily by the names that Dean attributes to them), so Dean has to either point or explain what he wants based on shapes and colors. Honestly, Dean doesn’t mind. He’s relieved and much calmer with Cas there, even if he sits mostly silent as Dean teaches him about different types of wrenches and how Freon works. Cas doesn’t interject, primarily he just frowns, observing Dean’s motions and listening to his attempts at light conversation.

Sam leaves only once he’s sure that the other two are settled. While Dean and, by extension Cas, work on home improvement, Sam gets other accoutrements of domestic life like new mattresses, sheets, and blankets. Choosing things for Dean is easy, he knows him, knows him well, his likes and dislikes; he can hear his brother’s voice in his head as he peruses the aisles alternatively calling things “fugly” or “awesome” or “dude, do I look like a chick to you?” Cas, well, Cas is more complicated. He’s never really expressed his preferences for colors or textures, but, then, he didn’t really have the human perspective or need for any of these things until a week ago. The guy has worn the same outfit relentlessly for over two years, and he hadn’t even chosen it to begin with. There’s not much to go on. Sam wants Cas to feel at home, so he takes a great deal of time with his choices; in the end he gets deep blues, creams, browns, earthy colors, soothing ones, at least, Sam thinks so. 

They’re pretty set on furniture, but Sam buys some things they don’t have. He gets lamps, throw pillows, paper, pens, a new bookshelf. He grabs some DVDs and a DVD player, a radio (because Dean’s life is incomplete without an accompanying Classic Rock soundtrack), a TV. He knows Dean will want to build shelves for the study-turned-armory on the first floor himself (and will have a very exacting ideas about the specific raw materials he’ll need for the project—because he’s incredibly picky about these things), so he doesn’t bother with stuff like that. In the course of Sam’s travels, he gets a microwave, a coffee maker, a toaster, a waffle maker (what the hell right?). He buys four coffee mugs, each with its own label or joke on the side (one for each of them and one for Bobby). He acquires a coat rack and a drying rack and towels and digital alarm clocks and a vacuum (he hopes that using them on supernatural rugs won’t cause some kind of bizarre electrical response). He picks up more cleaning supplies and restocks their first aid necessities. 

Dean glowers at all the crap when Sam brings it home even as he helps to lug it inside the house. Sam’s hopeful face, reminds Dean forcibly of the time that his little brother was five and tried to convince Dean to let him keep a puppy he’d found abandoned in the park. It was a mutt, but definitely had some Lab in it. It had freaking huge paws and this overwhelming jubilant energy, with its tonguing lolling out in a something that looked like a smile. It was damn cute, licking Sam’s face with anexuberance that made the kid giggle. It tried to do the same to him, but Dean was nervous and shifty and afraid of the consequences of letting it in, even though he really wanted to—because John would flip out if he came back and realized that Dean had let Sam get a pet. Dean feels like that now, only instead of a puppy, Sam is bringing home all these small things that will inevitably turn this place from a temporary camp into a more permanent settlement. Settling runs the risk of being turned out, and Dean is afraid of the consequences. To be honest, so is Sam, but Sam has one advantage here—he has let himself want this, imagined it as something that he could have one day…whereas Dean has denied wanting this, pushed his ever present desire for a home—longing for the one he lost, for a new one—away as something impossible, something that he could never have and didn’t deserve. Now, he’s finally got the one thing that he’s spent his whole life convincing himself he didn’t want, and he is freaking out and totally unsure what to do. He’s ‘extra surly’ as Sam says, and it’s no wonder really. 

Dean finds it easier to deal with the changes that he’s making to the house. Installing a fridge? Well, they need somewhere to put the leftover pizza. Washer and Drier downstairs? There’s not a laundomat in town and it’s the middle of freaking June, they need to wash their clothes. Oven? Well, Dean does make fucking awesome burgers, so how can he deny himself and Cas that pleasure…Fixing the pipes? When Sam had raised his brows at that one, watching Cas hand Dean the necessary bolt, Dean had spat “What? The water pressure in this place is shit, we’re not savages here, dude,” and gone back to work. 

The stuff Sam is doing is different, maybe Dean could justify the DVD player and the TV (“I can’t live without Doctor Sexy, seriously, you want me to go through withdrawal?”), but the blankets and shit? The lamps? The throw pillows and scented candles and ‘decorative accents’ and whatever the fuck else? He can’t come up with a lie, even to himself, about what those things mean…they mean getting comfortable, letting your guard down, setting up shop... 

It takes a few days for Dean to realize that he has a room. His room. With a bed, a desk, a bookcase, a chair, dresser. Windows. He spends his first week there still living out of his duffle, but then he starts to leave things outside of it. His beaten up copy of The Illiad and Vonnoguet, a collection of Bukowski poems, they end up on the top shelf of the bookcase, and they look good there. They look comfortable, right. He finds an old record player in an antique shop, while he’s looking for a particular type of fixture, and he sets it up on an end table by his bookcase that Sam got at Target. He starts to collect albums, slowly and with care: Dylan, Zepplin, Springsteen. After he does laundry for the first time in the new house, he hesitates for a moment with his folded clothes, starring at his dresser and his duffle with an intense, gut knotting sense of uncertainty and anxiety before he puts them in a drawer. He leaves the duffle open on top the dresser, just in case, but when things come out of it, he doesn’t put them back. Sam got him an AC/DC concert poster, which he hangs on the wall, and a deep green comforter with flannel sheets and memory foam pillows, which Dean finds ridiculously exciting and kinda sweet…not that he’s gonna turn it into a chick flick moment or anything. He very carefully places a picture of him and his mom on the desk with a bittersweet smile. It’s the first he’s ever been able to take the photo out of his wallet for more than a minute or two at a time. He has, for the first time probably ever, the strangest desire to take more pictures, and hang them on the walls, set them up on his desk: pictures of Cas with paint splotches in his hair and Sam grinning like a maniac as he arranges throw pillows on the sofa. Dean’s never wanted to commemorate his life like that. Ever. It’s a new and startling feeling. 

All of them work together to organize the new stuff and the old stuff. They place the family photos that Sam found in the attic in the living room; some of them are labeled and dated. There is a young girl with Sam’s smile, John’s eyes, and long dark hair that they discover is Grandma Rebekah. There are a few shots of her early childhood with her parents, posed and formal, but there is also a picture of her has a teenager arm in arm with a tall young man with Dean’s chin who must be Henry. Sam places the photos on the shelves with tenderness—familiar with affection for family that he will never know—and Cas regards the process with the solemnity of a ritual. Throughout it all, Dean watches Cas like a hawk. He watches when Cas thanks Sam for his thoughtful selections at the store (they aren’t technically gifts, but Cas hasn’t ever received one to know the difference and he accordingly treats the new belongings with reverence). He watches when Cas pushes his food around his plate without eating. He notices when Cas continues to wince at causal touch. Is hyper aware of the fact that, even as Cas’ surface wounds heal, the deeper ones in his psyche begin to fester. 

Dean watches and he worries. Cas still has nightmares, and Dean knows because he hears them, leaves his door open so that he can hear them. He goes into Cas’ room, and wakes him up. It still takes Cas some time to realize who Dean is, and he initially recoils away from him in fear and confusion. Something about that lack of recognition just hurts, pierces Dean like a damn bullet. Cas’ pain elicits a respondent ache in Dean’s chest; the fact that his attempts to comfort only seem to make it hurt worse make him curse himself and any god who could be responsible for this. This whole thing with Cas is making Dean realize that he’s a tactile person, he keeps trying to touch him, to comfort him, to be close to him, but the problem is that Cas can’t stand physical contact. So Dean constantly feels like he’s running into walls, full of half-completed motions and frustration. 

Cas still doesn’t want to talk about his dreams. He avoids Dean’s gaze when he tries to broach the topic, so, more often than not, they’ll sit in silence together until Cas feels calmer. In the grey light of pre-dawn, sitting side by side on Cas’ bed, knees brushing slightly, Dean can understand why Cas chose this room; it’s the smallest, but that gives it a certain element of safety, like a cocoon or a nest, and he imagines that’s what Castiel needs more than anything. 

Most of the time they’ll wait out the aftermath in Cas’ tiny bedroom, but sometimes they’ll take it down to the kitchen instead. Dean will make Cas (and occasionally himself) some tea—he’s too tired and strung out to judge himself for that. They had had a conversation once in the later days of the apocalypse, about what Dean had seen in the future, about how far Cas had fallen, about the drugs and the women. Neither of them have mentioned it since, but there seems to be an unspoken understanding between them to make sure that Cas doesn’t come into contact with anything addictive—the morphine was worrisome enough, but he doesn’t want him join the ranks of barely functional alcoholics either…hence the tea. 

Dean comes back one afternoon in their second week at Grandma’s, from a medical supply run, and tosses his jacket on the coat rack by the door. He finds Sam (surprise, surprise) in the library, he’s got his manic geeky joy face on. Dean just leans in the doorway and shakes his head fondly—where the kid got this from, he’ll never know. 

“How’s it goin’, Prof. Thatch?”

Sam looks up, “Who?”

“Milo? Atlantis the Lost Empire? The nerdy professor dude who—You know what, never mind.”

“You’re such a freak, Dean.”

“It’s like the cartoon Indiana Jones, c’mon, that’s respectable.”

“Did you just hear the words that came out of your mouth?”

“You’re so uncultured, nerd boy.”

“That’s kind of an oxymoron.”

“You’re an oxymoron.”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes, but smiles reluctantly, so Dean grins back. He’s missed their banter. 

“So how was the shopping spree?” Sam taps his pen against his notebook.

Dean shrugs, “Got what we needed.” 

“Great,” Sam looks thoughtful, “Are you—”

“Where’s Cas?”

“His room,” Sam offers.

“Everything okay with him?”

“Everything okay with you?”

“Bite me, Sam.”

Sam looks annoyed as hell, as Dean turns away, he mutters something that includes the words ‘Cas’ and ‘realm of expertise.’ Dean ignores his brother’s disgruntlement with an insouciant backwards wave. 

He knocks on Cas’ door. Quick raps. “Hey, Cas?”

He pauses, “Can I come in?”

He’s all about respecting personal boundaries—unlike Sam or Cas (who disregard them in totally distinct ways), thank you very much—but not right now. As far as he is concerned, they are a state of emergency. Just keep telling yourself that, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his brother whispers in Dean’s head. He promptly tells it to shut the fuck up, one Sam is enough, and pushes open the door. 

Cas is seated cross legged on the floor in a patch of sunlight flooding from an open window. His face is tilted up towards it, casting him in silhouette. 

“Hey, Cas,” he tries again. 

Cast turns, “Hello, Dean.”

“Woah, man,” Dean fumbles slightly with his words. Cas, who has, for the better part of a week been acquiring some serious scruff, is suddenly clean shaven. Dean doesn’t think that he’s ever actually seen Cas’ face so bare. When he’d been wearing Jimmy, he’d rocked a perpetual five-o-clock shadow, but now, his jaw is all clean lines and angles. He looks younger somehow. 

He tilts his head at Dean’s silent stare and seems to realize the cause of it, because his hand involuntarily travels to his face and he ducks his head shyly, a blush blooming along his cheekbones. Dean is floored because he’s never seen Cas do that before. Ever. It stirs something strange in his abdomen, a flutter accompanied by heat; his hand wants to reach out and feel the newly exposed skin, and—Okay, where the hell did that come? Dean clears his throat.

“Sam showed me how to shave this afternoon,” Castiel explains looking back at Dean and speaking clearly, but still with that slight rosy hue to his features, “I expressed discomfort at the facial hair…it was ‘itchy.’” Cas uses finger quotes for emphasis. 

Dean chuckles, and drops down next to Cas, “Guess you’re not gonna miss the peach fuzz, huh?”

Cas frowns in confusion, so Dean taps his own cheek in illustration—he forcibly restrains from touching Cas. 

Cas’ nose crinkles, and Dean smiles a bit brighter at the expression, “No, I will not.”

“Well it looks good, man.”

“Thank you.” 

“So what’ve you been up to today?” He asks, feeling strange about the banality of the question juxtaposed against his anxiety in the asking. 

Cas narrows his eyes, “I was permitted to dress myself today.”

There’s no mistaking the frustration in his voice—the resentment, it strikes against a sensitive spot in Dean.

“You know we’re just trying to look out for you, right?”

Cas’ face softens and he sighs, “I know.”

“Cause we do the same damn thing to each other, too, it’s not cause we think you’re some damsel in distress or whatever,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, which may or may not be turning red. 

Cas cocks his head to the side again, noticing Dean’s gesture, and giving off the uncanny sense, that Cas has retained, even during the transition to mortality, that he can see straight through to Dean’s soul. The hunter stops the gesture abruptly.

“I do know, Dean,” Castiel admits, resigned.

“Then what’s up, man?”

“I feel—” at those words and the pause that follows, Dean absurdly wishes that Sam were here—he has way more experience in dealing with this shit—at the same time, if Cas is about to come clean, fess up, however uncomfortable it may be, Dean’s happy to be the one that he trusts with this.

“I feel helpless, Dean,” Cas face is a storm of frustration and anger, “Simple things, they should be simple, but they are not.”

“Like what?” Dean prods. He’s pretty sure this is how caring and sharing works. 

Cas looks at his hands as if they have severely betrayed him, “Buttoning my shirt, tying my shoes. These tasks are basic and I couldn’t even—”

“Woah,” Dean interjects and Cas looks at him, annoyed and embarrassed, “Cas, man, that’s normal.”

“Nothing about any of this is normal,” he retorts, which is ironic considering that they are collectively, the closest to normal they’ve ever been. That’s some Shakespearean level shit, right there. That thought does not bring any comfort. 

“Seriously,” Dean persists, because Cas probably won’t appreciate the irony right now, “One time, when I was sixteen or so? I got thrown on a hunt, some asshat witch mojo, whatever, I hit a wall and this cabinet came down and fell on my hand. Mother fucker crushed three of my fingers and a couple of knuckles.”

Cas looks both pained by this news, empathizing with Dean’s pain years later and perhaps lamenting that he wasn’t able to heal those wounds. He also appears dubious as to how this relates at all to his predicament. 

“The point is, my fingers were in splints for months and when I finally got them off, I couldn’t work them for shit—couldn’t write, brush my teeth, tie my shoes, buttons, you name it—I had to relearn how to do all that.”

“I don’t understand how—”

Dean rolls his eyes, and, without thinking, he reaches out and touches Cas’ hands. Cas shudders and flinches, but then consciously steadies himself, while Dean internally curses gods who throw their kids to the fucking wolves. 

“Cas, you see this?” He squeezes Cas’ hand, tries (and epically fails) to ignore the warmth that spreads up his arm from the contact.

“Yes…” Castiel looks like he’s questioning Dean’s sanity and it’s so much like his old, ‘I do not understand the crazy humans’ look that Dean has to keep from grinning.

“It’s brand freaking new, dude,” he argues, “hot off the presses—it’s an expression—you’re still learnin’ the ropes here and, seriously, before today, had you ever tied your shoes or buttoned a shirt?”

“No,” Cas frowns, “it was hardly necessary, but I understood the principle.”

Dean shrugs, “There’s a difference between knowing the principle and putting it in practice, dude. You’ll get better, it’s just gonna take some time. Look, I’m not gonna lie: this blows, but you’ll get it…Just hang in there.” He squeezes Cas’ fingers in reassurance and realizes that he’s still holding his hand, before licking his lips and pulling back again. He needs Cas to hang on. 

“It’s frustrating,” Cas admits.

“I bet,” Dean offers sincerely; he can only begin to try to imagine the extent of what Cas is going through…especially given that Cas doesn’t really want to talk about it, “but it will get better.”

Cas raises his brows, a ghost of a smile on his features, perhaps surprised by the optimism, “Will it?”

To be honest, the glass half full mentality that just slipped past Dean’s lips shocked the hell out of him too, but the uncertain look on Cas’ face strengthens his resolve. It will get better; Dean will make it better, or he will die in the attempt, so help him fucking god. “It will,” he repeats, steely edge to the reassurance in his voice. 

“Sam will be pleased to hear that,” Cas says.

“Why?” Dean is confused as hell.

Cas suddenly looks shifty, his eyes skirt away from Dean, “I may have thrown a shoe at him while he was trying to help me.”

Dean bursts out laughing. The force of it startles both of them, so much so that Cas grins slight and sheepish. Dean will take it. 

“I believe I alarmed him,” Cas seems contrite, though he had probably been in a ‘throw you back into hell’ frame of mind during the altercation.

“Sammy’s a big boy, he’ll get over it. I’ve done worse.”

Cas tugs on the sleeve of his shit—a plaid hand me down that was once Sam’s—unsure, and Dean suddenly has an idea. 

“Hey, Cas, what d’you say we get you some new clothes this weekend?”

“Am I no longer permitted to borrow your things?”

“Course you can—my ratty tees are your ratty tees—” and they would look way fucking better on you, he thinks but doesn’t say aloud, “but it might be nice for you to, you know, pick some stuff out for yourself or whatever.”

Cas considers this proposal carefully, much like a wine-taster considers the quality of a vintage, “I think that I would like that.”

“Awesome,” Sam is going to be so proud of him for this one—helping Cas ‘exercise his free will and autonomy.’

They sit in a comfortable silence for a beat.

“You wanna help me make dinner?”

Cas appears ambivalent.

“C’mon, I’m gonna make my famous burgers, they fucking kick ass,” Dean cajoles.

The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches slightly, and Dean absurdly feels like he won the lotto at the proto-smile, “You are ridiculous.”

Dean gives him a devil may care grin, as Cas slowly gets to his feet, and he has to fight the urge to throw an arm around his shoulders as they head down the hallway, “You, my friend, are in for a damn good experience.” And maybe if he has a hand in the prep work, he’ll actually eat more than a bite or two.

“Hey book-boy,” he calls to Sam, “Come help us make dinner.”

“Be there after I finish this…”

Dean rolls his eyes conspiratorially at Cas and stage whispers, “Wanna sabotage Sam’s dinner?”

Cas looks scandalized, “Why would we do that?”

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam shouts. 

“Any time, princess,” Dean smiles and winks at Cas. 

Castiel looks confused as fuck and Dean kind of likes it? Is it wrong that Cas’ concerted facial expression at something as innocuous as brotherly mockery, gives Dean hope that they will all pull out of this okay? Because it does. 

In the kitchen, Dean shows Cas the ropes of making burgers. He throws open the windows, cranks up the classic rock station on the radio (setting the mood, he assures the former angel, is an essential part of the process). It’s Cas’ job to mix the meat and seasonings (to Dean’s top secret recipe, which cannot be committed to writing), and he makes weird faces at the texture of steak sauce and ground chuck oozing between his fingers. They haven’t gotten a grill yet—Dean adds it to his mental list of things they should have if they’re sticking around for a while—so he’s gonna broil the shit out of these. He heats the oven and stands next to Cas at the counter, only an inch or two between them so that their elbows brush occasionally. It’s strange and familiar at once: having Cas up in his personal space (or maybe it’s Dean who’s invading Castiel’s) is just part of their relationship, always has been, despite Dean’s scolding and complaining, but doing something so ordinary, so domestic, in such close proximity—it should be awkward or wrong, Dean expects it to feel that way—but it isn’t, it feels good, comforting, right. It’s a strange sort of shock to his system that he could get used to this. He could hang out with Cas in the kitchen, cooking and listening to music, talking, quiet, it wouldn’t matter, he could do this every day for the rest of his life and he would be happy. That revelation floors him, startles him; something strange and warm is spreading through his chest, and he is afraid to embrace it, so he distracts himself by showing Cas how to shape the meat into patties. Cas seems quite proud of his handiwork, and Dean smiles, encouraging. He works on the toppings, slicing tomatoes with gusto, because he really doesn’t want to give Cas sharp objects. When Cas has finished making the burgers, he helps to tear leaves of lettuce off the head—slowly and methodically, as if preserving them in tact is essential. 

“Where did you learn this?” Cas asks. It’s the first time he’s initiated a conversation since he fell.

Dean glances at him from beneath his eyelashes, continues chopping, onions this time, “All over, man.”

Cas cocks an eyebrow in question.

“When we were real little and dad went on hunts, he would leave us with friends, baby-sitters, whatever—he stopped doing that pretty quick—but, I used to be pissed cause I thought I was too old for that shit.”

“You were five, Dean,” Cas corrects gently, almost mournfully.

Dean shrugs, “I was a very mature five.”

Cas smiles slightly and knocks his shoulder against Dean who grins, “I think that Sam would disagree.”

“Whatever,” Dean rolls his eyes, “I might’ve been a little rambunctious—all the best kids are—and sometimes the people who would watch us didn’t know we were coming or have stuff for kids, so they would let me help with the shit they were doing, keep me from getting into trouble…learned how do a lot of stuff that way that way, including cook, not that we had much opportunity for it—Pastor Jim taught me how to do burgers,” he smiles at the memory, “we stayed with him over Memorial Day one year, and he let me help work the grill, said I was a natural.”

“I am sure that you are a master of the craft,” Cas nods gravely, acknowledging that Dean entrusted him with a memory from his childhood—a time that he rarely recognizes or shares with anyone. Dean realizes that, too, and feels suddenly like there’s not enough air in the kitchen. Cas looks like he’s about to say something, but Sam comes in just then. 

“Took you long enough,” Dean complains good-naturedly. 

“How did the translation go?” Castiel asks, and, after he sticks his tongue out at his brother, Sam replies enthusiastically as he starts to slice rolls. 

Dean puts the burgers in the oven; Cas sets the table; Sam grabs everyone a glass of sweet-tea and busts out the fruit salad he bought to “make sure we don’t die of scurvy.” 

“Dude, note the tomatoes, that’s a fruit.” 

Sam looks a long way down his nose at them, “Not really substantial, Dean.” 

“I can make us fries—potatoes are totally vegetables,” he’s half screwing with Sam for the hell of it. 

“No, they’re starches.” 

“When did you become the food pyramid police?” 

“One: the food pyramid is outdated. Two: when I decided that we couldn’t leave Cas to suffer from what you call ‘food.’” 

Dean glares. 

They all sit down together, and Castiel has something pretty damn close to a foodgasm when he takes his first bite. Sam looks amazed by Dean’s culinary prowess. They eat and talk (Cas manages to finish his entire burger, and Sam and Dean both have seconds), and, when they’re done eating, they leave the cleaning for later, and head out to the front porch. Dean turns on the radio and Sam brings out beer for him and his brother and tea for Cas. The Winchesters drop at either end of the second step, and Cas seats himself one step above, as close to Dean as he can be without touching. He’s a reassuring warmth at Dean’s back. 

The sun sets, casting the yard and the trees into twilight shadows. Crickets start to sing their nightly song, with fireflies dancing in accompaniment; Cas watches them enraptured. It’s peaceful and it feels like home for the first time since they got here—with Cas and Sam discussing Welsh verb forms, and Dean and Sam reminiscing about a concert they went to near here a few years ago and, damn, what a show. Sam is stoked about Cas choosing some of his own stuff—for the reasons Dean thought, and he gives his brother a very proud look. Cas suddenly gets up and leaves the porch and lies down in the middle of the yard. 

The boys share a confused glance.

“Whatch doin’, Cas?” Dean calls.

“I want to see the stars,” he replies like it’s obvious.

Sam smiles softly at Cas and then at Dean, “I’m gonna go clean up,” he says, but his words are laced with meaning and he shoots a look at Cas like he’s trying to tell his brother something.

“Thanks, man,” Dean says and, though he’s not totally sure why Sam seems to have suddenly developed an eye twitch. As soon at the door shuts behind him, Dean walks across the lawn and lies beside Cas in the grass. It smells like summer—grass and earth and fire; the sky is blue and velvety interspersed with sparks of silver and white.

Dean’s hand is an inch from Cas’ and he can feel the distance—like there is an electric charge between Cas’ fingers and his own and they want to ignite. It’s a heady sensation that he hasn’t experienced in years, if ever. He wonders if he’s going crazy or if Cas can feel it, too.

Castiel tells Dean stories of the constellations—mapping the stars across thousands of years and thousands of cultures, and Dean listens enraptured, occasionally interjecting with comments at Cas’ tales of heroism and tragedy. They talk intoxicated with the summer night, as the air cools around them, and Cas yawns widely his nose crinkling in a way that Dean find adorable (and he must be tired if he actually just thought Cas’ nose was adorable). 

Dean teases him for being sleepy, and Cas grumbles. 

They make their way inside, and Sam is waiting for them in the sitting room. He looks at them expectantly, eagerly, scrutinizes their faces and their hands, but whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. He sighs and bids them goodnight. 

Dean ruffles his hair; Sam blusters and swats at him. Cas makes his ways slowly up the stairs, and Dean follows close behind making sure that he doesn’t fall. When they reach Cas door, Dean feels a strange anticipation rising in him, the air is tense and something like adrenaline courses through him. Cas looks at Dean, stares at him, and the blue gaze is so intense that Dean momentarily forgets to breathe. 

“Well, ah, sweet dreams, okay?” he says, his voice a higher timbre, the words rushing out in one swoop, “I’ll, ah, be across the hall.” 

Cas bites his lower lip, and looks at his feet, “Goodnight, Dean,” he replies, before turning into his room and shutting the door, leaving Dean standing in the hallway wondering why the hell he feels like he just missed something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, lovelies, I have no idea how these chapters keep getting longer, but they do. Lots of domesticity in this chapter. Some drama in the next two/three. What fun. Thank you all for taking the time to read and comment on this story. I just want to hug all of you, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for rolling with my Grandma Winchester headcanon. More soon! xo


	9. Looking for a Complication

Shit goes to hell in Target…as shit is wont to do. Retrospectively, Dean realizes that he should have seen it coming. Things had been going a little too smoothly, you know? They get a house, a couple thousand bucks, a monster free existence. Cas is healing pretty well; Dean has not actually contracted a fatal case of cabin fever; Sam is in state of library induced nirvana. That’s not normal for them. Normalcy is not normal for them, and fucking nothing comes for free. So really, Dean should have seen a serious crisis on the horizon. In fact, he had been seeing potential crises—all day, every day—but, as always, these things tend to happen when you let your guard down. And Sam had been all “Dean, you need to relax,” and “Dean, seriously, I know that it’s difficult for you, but can you just try to enjoy this a little?” and Dean, fucking glutton for punishment that he is, had finally succumbed to Sam’s calming mantras and dared to believe for one fucking second that things were gonna be fucking peachy. He’s cursing himself ten ways from Sunday for being so fucking stupid. Optimism doesn’t do jack shit for anyone, except screw you in the ass repeatedly. 

See, the plan was simple: take Cas shopping for some clothes. Get him out of the house, let him stretch his wings (figuratively speaking), get him to, you know, be around other people, give him a chance to exercise some independence, and get some clothes that actually fit. Cas is more slender than Dean and Sam, and he’s a few inches shorter. He’s been making do with Dean’s jeans, with a tightly cinched belt, and Sam’s button downs, which are big enough to accommodate his liberally bandaged back and arms and don’t require him to put his arms over his head and open up newly healed skin; they hang pretty long on him. He was able to wear one of Dean’s ratty old Zepplin tees yesterday without hurting anything, and, yes, Dean’s prediction that it would look better on Cas was proved completely right and then some. He needs fewer bandages as he heals, and Sam predicts that ‘getting him out of the house, letting him use some autonomy, feel like we’re not babysitting him twenty-four seven, might help with the depression.’ And Dean has to begrudgingly agree because Cas has always been on the quiet side of the spectrum, but since he’s fallen, he’s basically silent eighty percent of the time. He looks shut down and closed off, and Dean gets that cause it’s not like he’s exactly a stranger to PTSD or whatever, but, he’s pretty sure that Cas is operating on a whole different level of issues, and, judging by the compassionate Dr. Phil looks that Sam keeps giving Cas, his brother agrees.

So they’re taking Cas shopping. Dean shoots down the mall because ‘we’re not taking Cas to the red-light district of teen hookups, dude,” and he vetoes the thrift shop because ‘he should get something new.’ Which gets an eyebrow raise from Sam because second hand clothes had always been good enough for them growing up, when they didn’t shoplift stuff. 

“Look, man,” Dean rebuffs, “you keep goin’ on and on about all this ‘new lease on life’ bullshit,” Sam rolls his eyes, “well that means that Cas can fucking get new clothes from a damn store like a normal person.” The implicit: ‘he deserves better than what we had, and he is used to heaven, he fell from fucking heaven because of us, for fuck’s sake, we can give him this much’ echoes between them. Sam gives Dean his brooding and pensive face and starts to open his mouth, but Dean gets up and grabs his keys with an abrupt, “Let’s go.”

They drive to Target because, as Sam says, “You ruled out literally everywhere else, Dean,” meanwhile Cas asks, “Why do we have a target?” And Dean rolls his eyes and sighs because he hates fucking department stores, and he guesses Target isn’t as bad as, say, Walmart, but even so, fuck this shit. 

It starts off okay. Really it does. Cas takes everything in with a wide unblinking stare. Sam grabs a cart. Dean sticks tight to Cas elbow; he tries to give off calm and easy vibes because Sam has repeatedly pointed out that Cas is pretty fine-tuned to Dean’s moods, but, regardless, Dean feels safe in the knowledge that he has a gun tucked into the waistline of his jeans, and he gives a friendly smile to the attendants and the other shoppers, but his eyes are cold and calculating, and he half expects a rogue werewolf to leap out from behind the fabric softener. 

Cas appears slightly taken aback at the selections, “I’ve never considered the effort that humans put into clothing themselves,” clearly forlorn. 

“You got this, dude,” Dean encourages.

“Just pick out something you like,” Sam says, and Cas furrows his brow as if to say, ‘easier said than done, I have no idea what I like.’

He wanders up and down the rows and racks with narrowed eyes. Touching some shirts and closely scrutinizing others. He sniffs one, which Dean thinks is weird as hell, but Sam is willing enough to go with the process. They try to give him space, even though he seems intent on looking at everything very carefully, and it is taking forever. 

“Cas, you wanna maybe pick something out sometime before the end of the century?”

Cas glares at him, and it’s the first time Dean’s gotten a ‘smitey’ scowl in weeks, and it makes him smile because ‘hey, Cas, there you are, I’ve missed you,’ although, Sam quashes that with an epic glare. 

“Here, just pick one, it’s not like you have to marry the damn shirt.” 

Cas looks mildly scandalized by Dean’s suggestion that he marry an article of clothing. 

“Dean is being an jerk, Castiel,” Sam reassures him, “this isn’t the only time you’re gonna go shopping though, if you don’t like something we can take it back, no big deal.”

Cas continues his search, but this time he starts to put things in the cart: cotton button downs, t-shirts, hoodies, thermals. He seems to favor all different shades of blue, from navy to cerulean, and earthy greens, with the odd dose of bright orange, soft grey, and black. Turns out that Cas doesn’t really like yellow all that much. Go figure. There are several points at which the brothers have to explain logos to Cas, who doesn’t get the pop-culture references and reacts to team memorabilia like an anthropologist studying a strange example of native culture. He likes nature patterns on his shirts, sometimes stripes, or nothing at all. 

They help him figure out jeans size, and maybe Dean has been paying too close attention to Cas because he can eyeball the right length and width with zero problems. Even though it’s June, Cas doesn’t seem jazzed about wearing shorts, so they skip those entirely. He carefully handles the pajamas, selecting the softest, most comfortable ones they have, and he doesn’t understand why Dean rolls his eyes at the hot pink sleep-tee he adds to the growing pile in the cart. They skip the fitting room rigmarole because getting fifteen odd shirts on someone who just started to be able to pull a t-shirt on over his bandages yesterday, seems overly ambitious, if not downright cruel and unusual. But they’re pretty sure that this has been successful, and Sam congratulates Cas on a job well done. Cas doesn’t look particularly proud of himself, he looks like he wants to slap Sam across his overly supportive face because ‘I used to be a wave of fucking celestial intent and now I’m reduced to this fucking base life form that requires clothing, which I can barely put on myself, and that is not cause for celebration, stop infantilizing me, demon spawn.’ Cas does not say any of that. In fact, all he does is narrow his eyes slightly, but Dean hears it loud and clear, and Sam seems to feel it slightly because he says that he’s going to go and grab something from the home and garden department, while Dean takes Cas to pick out some shoes. 

Cas has been wearing Jimmy’s shoes, or a copy of them anyway, because they hadn’t been totally destroyed by falling from heaven. The problem is that they aren’t really practical, especially not now that Cas walks everywhere. He’s been going barefoot most of the time, more comfortable with no shoes than the frustration of laces and the unsupported soles. So shoes are a must, and it seems like it should be straight forward. Except, this is Cas’ first foray into human culture as a human, and they haven’t really worked out the kinks of this…at all. 

Dean helps him pick out some boots—Cas goes through three pairs before he decides on some in simple brown leather. They decide that he’ll wear them to go, since he seems eager to ditch the dress shoes. Cas ties the laces with slow, methodical, and definitive loops—plainly suggesting that ‘these are mine and I’m not taking them off.’ Dean thinks he’ll be singing a different tune when they give him blisters as he breaks them in. Sam had suggested sneakers earlier, so Cas is adamant that he gets them. This takes a bit longer, Cas does a weird little hop skip to see if they will actually support him. He does it so seriously that Dean can’t help but laugh at the strange, manic sight. He finally picks a pair of obnoxiously lime green running shoes with purple laces. Dean leaves him to box them up, while he goes to grab a couple packs of socks. 

The shoe department had been virtually empty when they showed up, but people started to filter in while Cas had been going through his sneakers: a mom with a three kids, a pair of teenagers looking for Converse, an older married couple, a business man or two. The noise level has increased significantly. The socks are only an aisle away. It doesn’t take long to get them, but, as Dean grabs three sets, he hears a loud crash and goes into panic mode, running towards Cas immediately.

Cas is huddled, back to the case of shoe boxes, some of them spilling around him, as he grabs the shelf for support. He’s breathing fast, and people are crowding around him. The aisle is packed, and the attention of strangers, the overwhelming crowd of them in a small space, is making Cas shudder. The concerned mom reaches out to touch his arm, and Cas jerks back violently, knocking a new shower of shoes from the shelf. 

“Hey,” Dean runs to his side, “Are you okay? Cas?”

Cas’ eyes dart around furiously, and he recoils from Dean. His focus eventually settles on the hunter in front of him, but he seems incapable of catching his breath. He doesn’t look hurt, but something is horribly wrong. 

He’s basically hyperventilating, can’t form words, his eyes are panicked. He clutches Dean’s arm in a vice-like grip—please, get me out of here, help me. 

“Is he all right?” someone asks. People are looking at Cas like he’s a freak-show, like there’s something wrong with him, like he’s defective, and Dean wants to shove the fuckers away. The only reason they’re even alive is because of Cas, how dare they fucking…Breathe, Winchester, focus. 

“He’s fine, lady,” Dean’s tone his sharp; he does not have time to pacify the fucking nosy-ass civilians, “Why don’t you back off?”

There’s some kid asking “What’s wrong with him?” Some older dude muttering about ‘autism’ and ‘special needs.” It takes every effort Dean’s got not to deck someone. 

“Cas, talk to me man? Are you hurt?” 

Cas doesn’t respond, he’s shaking and his eyes are wide and pleading. 

Thankfully, Sam shows up before Dean can even pull out his cell. 

He sees the crowd, and instantly clues in that something is wrong, “What’s—?”

“We’re leaving,” Dean barks, and he is incredibly thankful for his and Sam’s ability to communicate without words because all it takes is one look of desperation—something is wrong with Cas and we need to get the hell out of here, right now—before Sam jumps in, acting as a buffer between Dean, Cas, and the curious bystanders. Sam, in turn, gives his brother a sharp nod—get him out of here, I’ll take care of this and meet you in the Impala. Go. 

Cas is still frozen to the spot, and Dean manhandles him, despite the fact that it makes Cas wince and jump, because he needs to get him out of here. He leads him, half carries his tense form, through the store, past all the employees and shoppers, and outside. The first whiff of fresh air hits them in a blast and he guides Cas to the bench beside the automatic doors. The sun is shining, there’s a breeze, Dean maintains a gentle press of his fingers on Cas’ shoulder, unconsciously mirroring the mark he bears on his arm. 

Cas is still spaced out, his pupils are blown wide, he’s taking short, choppy inhales. Dean’s ninety-nine percent positive that Cas is having a panic attack. This is so not what had in mind when he suggested that they get him out of the house.

“Cas,” he ducks his head, trying to catch his eyes, kneeling in front of him, “Cas, man, you gotta breathe, okay?”

“Dean, I—,” he grabs Dean’s wrist in a grip that may or may not leave bruises, he looks like he’s either going to punch him in the face or start vomiting.

“You’re all right, Cas,” he reassures, slow and calm, “I gotcha, man. You gotta try to breathe.” Before you pass out, is unspoken but true. 

“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” Cas looks beyond freaked out, which makes extra sense, given that he only began needing to breathe at all, two weeks ago. 

“I know,” Dean says, “Here c’mon, put your head between your knees.” 

Cas just blinks. His jaw is clenched so tightly that Dean is worried for his teeth. 

“I’m gonna touch you, okay?” He waits for permission this time, now that the immediate crisis is over; Cas nods sharply, bracing his already tensed muscles. 

Dean sighs, very carefully, places his hand on Cas back, helps him to bend forward until his head is between his knees, “There you go.”

Cas releases his grip on Dean’s arm, and buries his hands in his own hair, gripping the strands tightly, as if trying to keep his head from flying apart. Dean moves to sit next to him. 

He hesitates for the barest moment before putting his hand on Cas shoulder blades, as lightly as he can manage, and he rubs slow circles there. 

“It’s okay, man,” he soothes. Cas’ breathing starts to slow, Dean continues his ministrations, mindful of the damage to Cas’ back and his psyche, muttering quiet, comforting nonsense, until Cas’ inhales and exhales are more steady and the muscles under Dean’s hands start to relax, feeling less like stone and more like pliant flesh. 

Sam comes out and rushes towards them, ready for battle. 

“Go get the car, Sam,” Dean calls, tossing his brother the keys with his free hand. Sam nods, sparing a deeply concerned look for Cas, before he jogs across the parking lot, purchases in hand. 

“We’re gonna take you home, okay?” Home. Not the motel, not the house we’re squatting in. Their home. Dean hopes to hell that Cas is thinking of the same place that he is, and not heaven, because Cas can’t go back there, and Dean can’t take him. He doesn’t want Cas to want to go back to heaven, he can’t—focus Winchester, a voice the sounds like Sam in head says, you can get him to calm down, help him through this, you can try. 

The real Sam pulls up, and leaps out of the car, rushing to help.

“Here we go, all right?” Dean says, “You okay?”

Cas doesn’t respond, but he allows himself to be moved and is too exhausted to give off a ‘don’t ask stupid questions, vibe.’

“D’you want to—” Sam gestures towards the driver’s seat, hovering around Castiel. 

Dean glances at Cas, clearly on the brink, and then back to Sam’s concerned face, “You take it, man.”

The drive back is quick, but not fast enough for Dean, who spends the trip muttering to Cas and snapping sharply at Sam to drive faster. The reflection of Sam’s face in the rearview mirror clearly suggests that this was the reason that he had wanted Dean to drive in the first place, well, that, and clear concern for Cas’ wellbeing. 

When they pull up the drive, Dean helps Cas out, and Sam ushers them into the house, flitting around them like an anxious mother duck. Cas hasn’t said two words, he lets himself be led to the sofa. Sam hastily gets him a glass of water. Dean sits next to him offering blankets, pillows, telling Cas to breathe. Cas looks vacant, expressionless, blank. His inhales and exhales are regular and even, maybe even deeper and more controlled that usual, like he’s more conscious of the act of drawing air into his lungs than he had been previously. 

Sam comes back with a cool glass of water, condensation beading the sides. Dean tilts his head in a ‘I don’t know what the fuck to do,’ sort of way, and Sam’s mouth twists into a hard line, ‘Neither do I. We’ll wing it, as usual.’

“Brought you some water,” he says gently, “How’re you doing?”

Cas accepts the water, but doesn’t drink or answer. He stares at the glass in his hand. Sam perches on the coffee table. Dean has stopped touching Cas, hands tightly clasped in his lap to resist the overwhelming urge to run his hands across the knobs of Cas’ spine, the slope of his shoulders, try to ease the pain in the memory of lost wings. He wants to soothe, to take that hurt away, god does he want to, but he can’t. His touch will do nothing but cause Cas more grief, his stupid idea is what did this to him, just when he was on the mend. Fuck. 

“Can we get you anything?” Sam offers tentatively. 

Cas shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw jumping with tension. He looks tired; it’s not often that Dean thinks of Cas as being old, but in this moment Dean can see in his eyes the millennia he’s lived, every seconds of them weighing on him. 

“Cas d’you wanna—?” Dean trails off: Talk about it? Fly away from all of this? Away from us? 

Cas just blinks, slow and solemn, “I would like to be alone.”

The statement is toneless, but Dean feels it like a slap across the face, a confirmation of fears predicted and dreaded. 

“Are you sure that—” He’s not sure what he wants to protest. He feels like this a profoundly bad idea, letting Cas out of his sight, at the same time, he knows how often he’s wanted or needed to be alone in the wake of a crisis…hell, maybe that’s why he thinks this is a terrible plan, but, before he can get a word in, Sam puts a restraining hand on his arm.

“Okay, Cas,” he assures, careful and reassuring; “We’ll be here if you need anything.”

Cas gets up and ascends the stairs without a backwards glance. He shuts the door of his room with force, and Dean actually recoils as if it had been slammed in his face. Closed off, separated, rejected. 

“You really think he should be alone right now?” Dean hisses, tone harsh and accusatory, almost wrathful. He’s edgy as fuck, feels like he might jump out of his skin. He wants to run up the stairs and bust down the door and just…he can’t do that, the only alternative that he can see is to just get the fuck out of here, screw this. Dean wasn’t meant for this shit and this shit was never meant for him. He knew that he would fuck it up. Here’s the goddamn proof.

“I think,” Sam says, not backing down, frowning at his brother’s stormy countenance, “That we have to give him some space, if that’s what he wants.”

Fuck this whole damn thing. This is the first step in Cas leaving, Dean can just tell, can feel it, why the hell would he want to stick around? It’s Dean’s fault that Cas is here in the first place, he dragged him into this mess of humanity, he made him rebel, got him to fall, got him stuck here on earth. It’s a wonder the guy can even look at Dean, let alone be near him…no wonder he flinches away anytime Dean comes close…

“Dude, he’s confused,” Sam is clearly trying to invoke some sort of level-headedness in his brother, but he’s only nettling the beast of uncertainty and anger that lies coiled in Dean’s chest, waiting for the slightest provocation to lash out, “he’s probably embarrassed, this is all new, and he’s scared and hurting,” Sam sighs, “We’ve gotta give him some time to figure this stuff out.” 

Dean can’t handle Sam’s consoling looks; they’re burrowing under his skin, into his soul or something. He doesn’t want Sam to know what’s going on inside his head. His fingers twitch, there’s not enough air in this place. He launches himself to his feet with ferocity. Sam startles slightly. 

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

“No,” and Dean slams the front door shut on Sam’s disappointed sigh.

He wants to get in the Impala and just go. Rev it up to ninety, outrun everything, race away, the world a blur out the window and his thoughts drowned out by AC/DC. He wants to hunt something, fucking kill something, if not god, for doing all this shit…he needs to shoot something, decapitate something. Zombies, fucking zombie hunt would be goddamn perfect right now. 

He can’t do any of that. He can’t leave—Sam and Cas, they’re his center of gravity, and he can’t ditch them, especially not now. He’s not a deadbeat dick face. There’s no demon to kill with the Colt. There’s no ghost to salt and burn. There are no Zombies to pin in their damn coffins, no fucking vamps to chop to bits. He can’t even use a gun because he’s only a couple feet away from goddamn civilians and he has the presence of mind to know that the last thing anyone needs right now is the damn prying neighbors raining down on them with uncomfortable and unanswerable questions.

He feels like he’s coming out of his skin. No, that’s wrong, he wants to get out of his skin, but he’s trapped and he can’t stand this tension, he fucking can’t. He kicks the porch rails, barely even registers the respondent throb in his foot. He storms across the lawn, breathing heavily, face like a storm, eyes cold as ice; it’s the expression that has struck fear into legions of supernatural creatures across every damn plane of existence. 

He’s not sure where he’s going, but he ends up in front of a tree. It’s fucking massive, probably hundreds of years old, and Dean doesn’t give a damn, because bile is rising in his throat, and his skin is on fire, and he swings without even thinking. 

His knuckles connect hard with the rough bark. His skin splits, bleeds. He hits it again, and again. Methodic, forceful, he throws a kick or two for good measure. They send reverberations up his arms, jolting sensations, the steady burn of his muscles, the sting of torn flesh. It feels good. He feels in control for the first time in forever. 

He thinks of Cas, terrified, confused, in pain. He thinks of the ashes of his incinerated wings, the fucking agony in his eyes, his muted screams. He thinks of his father, telling him to man up; never good enough. Zachariah’s smug face. Sam falling into the Pit. Castiel exploding into thousands of pieces; Bobby, stone cold dead, neck snapped. Dean thinks of the rack and Alistair, being torn apart, tearing others to shreds…liking it. He’s a goddamn monster. He deserves this pain. Cas doesn’t. Sam doesn’t. Dean sure as fuck doesn’t deserve either of them. They’re fucking stuck with him though. He’d be doing them all a favor if he just ran, took off and never looked back, but he’s too much a coward for that. 

He can’t do anything. He can’t fix anything. He can’t help anyone any more. What good is he at all? There’s nothing to hunt. Sam can have a normal life if that’s what he wants, and Cas, Cas is lost, lost and he doesn’t fucking deserve that. What kind of fucked up father lets this happen? What kind of a complete asshole would do this to his own kid? 

Dean’s thoughts blur, scattered images and memories rise to the surface and disappear quickly as he keeps throwing his fists against the trunk, leaving smears of red. He’s so fucking angry, so frustrated, and he keeps going, like the damn tree is everyone and everything in this world that has screwed over the people he loves. He attacks the tree like it’s a goddamn mirror. 

He eventually takes a final swing, and pulls back, panting, blinking away stars. He sighs, adrenaline coursing through him; his hand is gonna hurt like a bitch as soon as it wears off. He looks down at the offending digits, thinks he might have busted at least two knuckles, doesn’t really care, isn’t sorry at all. He deserves the pain. He rests a palm against the oak, above the tracks of blood, almost apologetically. The damn thing didn’t really deserve the beating it just took. 

He leans for a moment collecting himself. Rubs his face, realizes there might be tears mingled with the sweat, though he sure as fuck didn’t notice them falling hot and wet from the corners of his eyes. He wipes his cheeks with the inside of his wrist, not yet covered with the blood dripping from his split knuckles. He’s less restless, less inclined to claw his way out of his own skin. The frustration still sits with him though, low and steady, but it’s farther away, less immediate—a buzzing hum, rather than a scream, locked up and buried where it usually goes for now. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been out here. Probably a while—the sun sits a little bit lower in the sky, he’s done some serious damage to the tree, and his hands. He walks slowly back to the house and sinks onto the front steps with a groan, bent forward, hands palm open on his knees. 

Dean momentarily wonders if Sam still has some psychic abilities because he comes out silent as a damn shadow (impossibly quiet for someone so large) about five minutes later. He glances up at his little (ginormous) brother, who is making a resigned face and carrying two bottles of beer and a first aid kit. He sits next to Dean on the steps. 

“Feel better?” he asks.

Dean shrugs, “Not really.”

Sam sighs, weary and unsurprised, “What d’you want first?”

“Alcohol,” Dean says, “The answer is always alcohol, Sammy.” 

“Figured,” Sam opens the beer and passes it to his brother. 

It runs smooth and cold down Dean’s throat. 

“How’s Cas?”

“Sleeping,” Sam responds, “once the adrenaline wore off, he was exhausted, but he’s okay, considering.”

“Okay.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” 

Sam’s mouth is a hard line, “Well, we’re gonna have to talk about it, Dean.”

“Why?”

Sam rolls his eyes to the heavens, “Because you just beat the shit out of a tree, Dean. And it’s not just that, you’ve been acting weird for weeks.”

“So?”

“So,” Sam spits, “you can’t just keep bottling this stuff up. You’re gonna have to talk about it sooner or later, and I would really much rather if you do your purging now, instead of going postal the next time you go to Home Depot, or the next time Cas has a breakdown.”

Dean clenches his jaw.

“Give me your hand,” Sam orders.

“I got it,” Dean snaps.

Sam gives him bitch face #100 you are a dumb masochistic son of a bitch and you’re gonna listen to me before you do something else stupid. It’s the bitch face that reminds Dean the most of Bobby, and, is therefore, twice as effective.

“No, you really don’t,” Sam retorts, taking Dean’s closest hand in a death grip at the wrist, and busting out the antiseptic, “You’ll leave it until you get gangrene because you’re punishing yourself like an idiot.” 

Dean winces, grimaces, glares, and punctuates all that nonverbal communication (which Sam pointedly ignores) with a swig of his beer. 

“Ouch, man!” he yelps at the sharp bite of the Peroxide, “take it easy.”

“Shut up, ya baby,” Sam is enjoying this too much. 

“You shut up,” not one of Dean’s wittier retorts.

“So…” Sam prompts, and it’s clear to Dean that his brother is not above using first aid tools as weapons in an interrogation. 

“So what, Sam?” Dean barks, and, just as expected, he gets an extra shot of antiseptic into a deep scrape and he hisses. 

“Fuck, dude.”

Sam just gives him the puppy dog eyes, all innocence. He is so getting pay back for this. 

“You gonna talk willingly or am I gonna have to force you?”

“Bite me, Sam.”

It’s quiet for a minute. 

“Cas is gonna be pissed,” Dean admits looking at his raw and bloody skin. Because now that the adrenaline is wearing off he realizes that Cas is probably gonna be upset as hell about the fact that he can’t heal Dean’s stupid mistakes. 

“Probably,” Sam ducks his head in agreement, “But it’s not like you can just hide in the basement until they heal.”

Dean just blinks at him, considering.

“Dude, you cannot just hide in the basement until your hands heal,” Sam is so done with Dean’s shit right now, and Dean is equally done with Sam. They glare at each other while Sam continues patching up Dean’s hand.

Dean takes a pull of his beer. The last time Cas had been cut off from heaven, and hadn’t been able to heal somebody, he’d looked defeated as fuck, frustrated as hell…how Dean could have forgotten that, even momentarily…He shakes his head. He’d been thinking about Cas this whole time, but he hadn’t been thinking about Cas, about the fact that the newly fallen angel might have another existential crisis in relation to the loss of his healing mojo. Another existential crisis caused by Dean. Fucking perfect. 

“Cas isn’t the only one who’s upset here, Dean,” Sam says pointedly, “I’m upset, you should be upset about this—” Should care about what happens to you, his eyes say almost pleadingly. Dean know that expression far too well on Sam’s face. 

“Look,” Sam says, going more gently as he wraps up Dean’s hand, “I know you’re worried about Cas; about me…” he reaches for Dean’s other hand and Dean obliges, taking a swig of beer as he transfers the bottle from right to left, “I know you’re angry, but…”

“It’s not just that,” Dean’s voice is gruff, “It’s just…what’re we doin’ here Sam? All right you, sure, yeah, fine, suburbs, picket fences, that’s what you’ve always wanted, and you’re gonna be fine…but me?” he shakes his head, “I’m not built for this shit. I’m not made for this—” I don’t deserve this, “—what the hell am I gonna do here? Make everyone an apple pie? Impersonate Martha Stewart full time?”

Dean doesn’t look at Sam’s softening countenance, can’t stand to see the pity and understanding there, can’t believe he even just said any of that. 

“Dean, look,” Sam says, slowly and deliberately, “I know you don’t think that you deserve this. You got a lot of shit, hell, we all do, but Dean, I know that you want this.”

Dean scoffs derisively, but stares pointedly at his boots, so Sam won’t see the truth in his words. 

“And you’re scarred of wanting it, scarred it’s all gonna go to hell, I mean, Jesus, Dean, so am I,” Sam admits, Jessica a ghost at his side, in his words, at that moment, “but, dude, after everything we’ve been through…we deserve a chance at normalcy, at happiness, and I say we take it for as long as we can—”

“Sam,” Dean starts almost admonishing, but Sam, ever hopeful in the face of everything—which is proof that miracles can happen in some perverse way—perseveres in the face of what Dean would call “realism” and he would call “pessimism.” 

“—we’ve been through enough,” his tone is final, gentle, “and we’re never gonna be totally normal, but we can try to be happy, we can be a family.” Him and Dean and Cas and Bobby. They can be a family. They can have a home. A place to call their own, a place to stay and plant roots, a place to grow. The idea is heady, impossible. It’s an idea that Dean’s been trying to hide from, and Sam has forced him to look straight at it—well, he’s at least put it in the room, in the spot light, waiting for Dean to take a chance on it. 

Sam releases Dean’s bandaged hands, takes a gulp of his own beer, and gazes at some indeterminate point on the horizon. Dean glances at his brother, who sounds calm and grounded, baby Sammy holding him together like always.

Sam senses Dean’s gaze and he smirks, “If you turn in to Martha Stewart, I will stage an intervention, I swear.”

That surprises a laugh out of him, and Sam echoes it. 

Dean’s mouth has an upward tilt when he brings the bottle to his lips, and Sam copies the motion. 

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. 

“I think this is stupid as hell, but, I’ll try, Sammy,” Dean finally says, and Sam smiles though he tries to contain the joy because this is a promise, and Dean doesn’t break those. 

“That’s all I’m asking,” Sam says.

“All right then.”

“All right.”

Sam gets up and takes the empty bottles inside, Dean follows after a moment with the first aid kit. Sam puts sandwiches together for dinner. Dean checks on Cas, who has apparently fallen into a restless sleep. He and Sam eat and drink in the living room, taking turns to look in on Cas and make sure he’s okay every hour or so. They don’t talk much. They catch the news, and compete against each other in Jeopardy (Dean wins in the final round, but it’s a narrow victory). They catch The Mummy on TNT. The boys snark at one another throughout, wonder about the factual accuracy of mummies and Egyptian witchcraft. They call bobby as a tie breaker, “Whadda you idjits, think I am, your phone a friend?” and tells them that “that tv’ll rot your brains if you’re not careful, and you boys didn’t have much grey matter to start with.” The brothers laugh for the first time all day. 

Sam decides to stay up and read for a little bit—“I’m trying to finish translating that Sumatran text”—,but Dean is exhausted and sore and the idea of going to bed sounds pretty damn good. Sam promises to look in on Cas. 

“Thanks, Sammy,” he says, voice full, and Sam smiles and nods, “’Night, Dean.”

Dean cracks open Cas’ door, pads softly across the floorboards, looks down at the fallen angel. Cas seems relatively peaceful, tired, not tormented by nightmares, at least, not yet. 

Dean feels a strange tenderness looking at Cas’ face, the softness of his eyelashes, the gentle flow of his breath, his hair, dark and mussed. Thinks, maybe for this, for Sam down the hallway buried in his books, and Cas, safe in bed, maybe for them he can try this whole thing…maybe…

“Night, Cas,” he whispers, reaches out to ghost his fingers across his brow, but pulls back at the last moment. 

He leaves the door of his room cracked open, a habit in this new house that he never had before, open for Cas, for Sam, if they need him. He lies in bed and closes his eyes, but he feels the restlessness build.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is okay in the wake of the season finale! I, personally, am still recovering from its epic-ness. Thank you to all of you who read, comment, favorite, or follow this story; you guys are seriously amazing and I really appreciate your support and encouragement. 
> 
> A few notes:  
> I keep writing thing that then happen on the show several weeks later, and it’s starting to freak me out. I wrote this chapter the week before 8x21 and was so beyond flailing when I saw the scene of Cas shopping. What even?
> 
> I’m sorry if this chapter is angsty. Like I said, I’ve usually written two to three chapters ahead of the most recently posted one, and I somehow did not tally emotional fic angst with emotional finale angst. 
> 
> Finally, I personally am stoked for all of the excuses to write domestic Team Free Will/DeanCas this summer, so while I continue this, there will likely also be some one-shots set post-season 8 (if you have any suggestions for that I would love to hear them) 
> 
> I would love to hear what you think of this chapter! Love and hugs.


	10. Born to Run

Sam's in the library working on (or more accurately struggling with) one of the texts. It's in Aramaic, and Sam is guessing that his ancestors were fluent in it (as well as every other foreign and/or dead and/or otherworldly language) because, like all the other tomes and pamphlets and volumes and codices that exist in this gorgeous, glorious, holy Mecca of a library, there's no translation. So Sam is running his hands through his hair and squinting in consternation and rapidly developing what feels like a focus headache behind his eyes, and, to be totally honest, he's loving every minute of it. Although, he's having trouble making heads or tails of the passage he's currently attempting to decipher. He's trying to decide between three possible definitions for one word when he hears the crash.

"Cas," Sam whispers, looking up. He hears another resounding shatter and that's when he yells, "Cas," getting to his feet and running down the hall. Cas isn't in his room or the bathroom, so Sam books it down the stairs, leaps over the last three, flies through the sitting room, and skids to a stop in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Cas, are you—? Shit."

Cas is sitting on the floor amid the shattered remains of what appears to be every drinking glass they own. His hands are palm up on his knees and there is blood dripping steadily from between his fingers onto the floor.

If the sight of Cas bloody in the midst of wreckage wasn't terrifying enough, he's laughing—harsh, biting, almost demented laughter that shakes his entire body. Sam has never heard Cas laugh before, but he's not sure that he wants to count this as the first time. This is not a laugh born of joy, or good humor, or one of Dean's corny jokes. This is laughter born of breaking, and Cas has tears pouring down his cheeks; Sam can definitely count this as the first time that he's seen Castiel cry…

Sam takes in the scene in a matter of seconds, and he moves quickly, almost instantaneously. He crouches beside Castiel, mindful of both the glass and Cas' utter abhorrence of touch. His inclination is to reach out and make certain that he is okay, but he restrains himself. He doesn't want to trigger him any more than he already is.

"Cas?" He tries to keep his voice calm, but urgency creeps in at the edges, "Cas, what happened?"

Castiel just extends his hands, sticky with blood, showing Sam the glass imbedded in his flesh—shards, slices, and splinters—still laughing and crying, bordering on the edge of hyperventilation. Some of the cuts look pretty deep, and Sam hisses and winces in sympathy.

"My hands are bleeding," Castiel states in between gales of laughter, catching on sobs.

"Yeah," Sam extends his own hands, hovering just inches away from Cas' shaking shoulders, "I can see that."

Cas drops his chin to his heaving chest.

"What d'you say we get you cleaned up, huh?" Sam attempts, but Castiel is still lost to hysterics.

"All right, I'm gonna help you up, okay? Here we go." Cas braces his shoulders, while Sam steers him to his feet and leads him to the upstairs bathroom. Sam sits Castiel down on the edge of the bathtub and kneels on the cold tile in front of the angel.

"I hurt my hands," Cas says like it's the funniest thing in the history of all time and he's not quite sure why Sam isn't joining in on the joke.

"Yeah," Sam affirms, because, yes, indeed, Castiel has seriously hurt his hands. Sam can see that even better from his new proximity to the injuries, "You did. I'm gonna have to patch them up."

He looks at Cas' face and he's not sure how much concern is seeping through his expression because he feels for Castiel right now, feels a deep abiding ache in his chest.

"I hurt my hands," Cas repeats, but his tone is less infused with humor now; his eyes widen as he looks down at his palms, coated in red and riddled with fragments. "I hurt my hands, Sam," he says again, there is a slight twinge of terror creeping into his voice, his laughter is subsiding. Castiel tries to flex his fingers, as he so often does (it's something of tic), but winces. Sam reaches out on autopilot to stop him from replicating the gesture.

"Hey, don't do that."

Castiel stills, but there are tears dripping from his cheeks onto where Sam has gripped Cas' wrists. "I hurt my hands." His eyes are wide, bewildered, lost. He keeps repeating the mantra, but the tone changes each time. Sam is reminded strangely and suddenly of Lady Macbeth, "Out, out damn spot" and that is seriously disquieting.

"Cas, you've got to try to breathe, okay?" Sam is being, what Dean would call an 'overly supportive yoga guru,' but that's all he's got right now, and he refuses to dwell on his absent brother, he needs to focus on Cas.

Cas does breathe, deeply and through his mouth, the sound is jagged and wet, but he's trying. "I'm gonna go get some stuff to patch you up…I'll be back in a minute."

Castiel doesn't stop his refrain, but he inclines his head just slightly in acknowledgement, which makes Sam feel marginally more comfortable leaving him alone for the few seconds it will take to get what he needs.

He rummages through the hall closet, gathering all the necessary materials. He's kicking himself for letting this happen. Cas got hurt on his watch. He's also cursing his brother for being a dick. Focus, Sam, he reminds himself, and he hurries back to the bathroom, arms full.

By the time Sam returns, Cas has quieted. He's hiccupping slightly as he stares at his mangled palms, tear tracks drying slowly against his skin.

His eyes rise to meet Sam through lashes darkened with moisture. The contrast between the black and the blue is starker than usual, but their contents are as indecipherable as ever.

Sam talks Cas through the cleanup process—warning him when things will hurt. Cas remains stoically silent while Sam rinses off the blood beneath the sink faucet; rivulets of pinkish fluid running across Cas skin and down the drain. He tells Cas to brace himself against the astringent sting of the antiseptic. Cas hisses through his teeth at the sharp bite of it, but he holds perfectly still while Sam uses tweezers to remove the glass from his palms. There's a pretty deep cut at the base of his left thumb, but it doesn't look like it need stitches—thank god for small miracles. As it is, digging the tiny splinters of glass out of Cas' flesh is a painstakingly slow process, punctuated by water rinses and the burn of alcohol and peroxide. Castiel bites his lip and clearly struggles not to move away from Sam's large but gentle hands.

Sam starts to talk while he works. When Dean does the patching up after a hunt, he makes bad jokes, curses, and loudly promises death unto the perpetrator of injury. Sam is often a quiet worker, focusing on the task, chiding Dean for being unable to sit still, and quietly plotting vengeance. When Dean bandages Cas' back, he often works in silence, only hushed murmurs and soft humming accompanying the process.

Castiel could probably go a thousand years or more without speaking, he probably has, but Sam feel like he needs something to distract him (or, maybe it's Sam who needs the distraction from his own frustration, guilt, and the fact that he feels like he's kicking a puppy right now). So Sam tells Cas a story. A happy story (yes, strangely enough, he does know a few of those). He starts off slowly, but becomes more animated. He tells Cas about the time that he joined a soccer team in college. It was just a club sport, a bunch of friends hanging out in the California sunshine on the weekends and in the evenings. He tells him about how free he felt then, how liberated, sprinting around in the bright afternoon. Physical exertion for fun; playing, goofing off with no serious consequences. Running, not because he had to; not toward the next hunt, not away from death, just running to run, for the hell of it, for the joy of it. Breeze across his sweaty face, calves burning with exertion, laughing in sheer exuberance, smiling till his cheeks hurt. He's not sure why it's this story out of all the ones he could tell, except that he had felt happy then, and he wants Cas to know that being human doesn't always have to suck. He wants Cas to feel that too. The good parts.

He tells Cas about the time that they won the championship game, and the day they lost to their rivals, but everyone went out for drinks and pizza after, and Jess was the one plotting revenge and rallying the troops. It only hurts a little bit to mention her—a familiar tightening in his heart. He recalls the time that his friend, Matt, broke his arm pretty badly, and, without thinking about it, Sam had jumped right in, set the bone himself before taking him to the hospital. His friends were astonished, and Sam had had to lie and explain that he was an EMT in high school to cover for his advanced first aid skills. Then he had to endure being called MacGyver for a month.

He is almost finished with the tale and with Cas' hands—wrapping gauze around the injuries after applying a soothing coat of healing ointment.

"I don't think that I've ever told anyone that story," he admits almost fondly as he seals off the last bit with some tape. He and Dean don't talk about Stanford, ever. Too many resentments, old wounds, and grief. Sam tries to bury it and Dean doesn't want to touch it, so they leave it lie. He's not sure why it was so easy to suddenly tell Cas about it.

"What is MacGyver?" Cas asks, and Sam hides a small relieved smile at Cas' engagement.

"He's a character from an 80s tv show. He would get out of these impossible situations using random things that he had with him, like he could diffuse a bomb with a stick of gum and some nailpolish. He was pretty resourceful."

Cas nods as Sam tests the security of his wrap job, "It seems an apt nickname for you," Cas agrees, "…and your brother."

Sam recalls the proud look on Dean's face when he had showed off his homemade EMF detector.

"Dean's more of a MacGyver than I am," Sam settles beside Cas.

"Your brother is more mechanically inclined—" which is certainly one way to put the fact that Dean is an engineering genius, "But you both think 'on your feet' very well and effectively in crises situations. You have an impressive amount of knowledge at your disposal, Sam, and you deploy it wisely."

Which is Cas' way of kindly telling Sam that he's a walking encyclopedia of weirdness. Cas values knowledge, values wisdom and strategy and he finds those qualities in Sam admirable. It's weirdly touching and way more direct than any compliment that he's ever gotten, "Thanks."

They sit quietly. Sam staring at Cas, who is staring at his mummified hands.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" Sam prompts, voice soft and receptive, inviting confidences.

Cas looks like he'd rather not, but he proceeds anyway, "I tripped," he admits after a moment. "I was getting a glass of water and my shoes—" Sam takes a moment to appreciate the boots that Cas is wearing because they saved Cas' feet even if it looks like Cas wants to hurl them into the Pit with vehemence, "—I am unaccustomed to them—" Sam immediately recalls the initial annoyance that he feels at any new pair of boots—unbroken, unaccustomed weight and stiffness—and multiples it by a thousand and recognizes that that is likely only an infinitesimal fraction of what Cas feels "—and lost my footing, the glass broke."

Which does not explain the additional breakage. Sam just waits.

"I fell and I cut my hand. It was bleeding and I tried to fix it," Cas whispers, "but I—I couldn't—"

Sam listens, feeling overwhelmed for Cas—who used to be indestructible—defeated by a pair of shoes and a shard of glass—no wonder the poor guy had had an existential crisis.

"Cas," he offers, "it happens…" He places a consoling hand on Cas' shoulder and Cas, for once, doesn't pull away.

"It's never happened to me."

Sam's mouth tightens in sympathy.

Cas continues, "I thought—" he pauses, smiles dejectedly, and looks at Sam for the first time since they began this conversation—eyes bright with sorrow, pain, and the barest glimmer of dark humor, "I thought, 'I broke the vessel and I can't repair it,'" his face tenses and his words are laced with bitterness, "and I didn't know if I was thinking of the glass or my body."

Fuck, Sam thinks, just fuck. Cas has been through enough. He squeezes his shoulder gently.

"Do you know what it's like to have a vessel?" Cas narrows his eyes.

Sam figures the question is rhetorical, but he responds anyway, "No, I don't."

"When you take a vessel, you're the water in the glass—you make yourself into the appropriate shape to fill the space, but you experience things through a—a kind of lens; there is separation from the rest of the world, and what you are is not changed. The vessel may break, but you are untouched, unbroken; you may change form, return, if you will, in time, but you are unaltered. This is obviously more complex in practice," Cas notes, as if making allowance for the vagariaties and variances and quantum physics involved, "but I'm not occupying a vessel any longer, I am a vessel. There are no shields, there's no separation, when my body breaks, I break, and I cannot put it back together though I try…and I am broken and I just…" He trails off voice catching, and Sam's heart twinges.

Castiel laughs, dry and humorless, "It seemed so absurd. I believe I was angry? I just kept breaking things and I injured my hands and I couldn't breathe…I'm sorry."

Sam shakes his head, "You've got nothing to be sorry for…If it had been me, I probably would have done worse. Dean would have definitely burned down the house by now," he tries for levity, but there's no denying the validity of his statements.

Cas doesn't laugh or argue the point.

"You're handling an impossible situation really well, Cas, I mean it, I'm impressed," he pauses, "But you're not in this alone…we can talk about this. Anytime you want to. Might be a better alternative to breaking all the good china…and you've got to take care of yourself, we need you."

Cas gazes fixedly at Sam, a familiar stare that makes him feel like his soul is being x-rayed, and he nods, "You're a good person, Sam Winchester." Which is a very high compliment, and Sam's eyes widen at the praise.

"Thanks, Cas," he clears his throat, "What're friends for? We're family, you know, and family looks out for each other."

Sam can almost hear Dean's admonition of 'no chick flick moments' but he ignores it because they're allowed to have a moment, and damn it, Dean's not the boss of him.

"Yes," Cas agrees, solemnly "we do."

If he weren't afraid of hurting Cas' back or causing him to have another breakdown, he would hug the guy. Instead, he contents himself with patting his shoulder supportively, hoping the gesture can convey just how much he cares about Cas, how much Cas is his friend and his brother and important.

They sit quietly.

"Dean will be upset," Cas remarks a few minutes later, nodding at his hands. Sam forcibly contains his eye roll because these two are morons. If the two of them would just talk about this shit instead of stumbling around and then worrying about the other instead of themselves…He loves them, but they are idiots. Dean more so than Cas, certainly. Oh, Dean…

"He'll deal, don't worry about him," Sam says firmly, "You know, I was having some trouble with a translation earlier. Would you mind helping me out with it? You can go check it out and I'll clean up the kitchen."

Cas frowns, "I should help clean," I made the mess.

Sam shakes his head, "You had a rough morning,—" understatement "—and I don't mind. This would actually really help."

Cas looks dubious and squints to prove it, but eventually agrees in the face of Sam's persistence.

The kitchen is a mess, but it doesn't take that long to clean it up. All the while he sweeps the floor, Sam thinks.

His most frequent thought is that he is going to kill Dean, because his brother is a fucking idiot and the second he gets back from proving just how big of an emotionally stunted moron he is, Sam swears he is going to tie him to a damn chair until he stops acting like a fucking prick. It's actually a very satisfying train of thought, and Sam continues to follow it for the majority of the time that he works.

He'll need to try and school his features into a semblance of calm composure before he faces Cas again because it's really not his fault that Sam is just about ready to strangle Dean. In fact, if anyone should want to strangle Sam's brother, it's Cas. However, that is currently not an option and they've both had a really long day. Sam is quite impressed that he managed not to express or think about his frustration with his brother for the majority of the time that he was patching Cas up.

Castiel had legitimately had his own existential crisis; Sam is not negating that at all. He's impressed, as he said, that it took this long to happen. The problem is that he might not have been pushed to such a breaking point in the first place if not for the fact that Dean has been a dick lately. Sam maintains that this whole episode begins with the fact that Dean's ability to handle emotional situations could best be measured in negative numbers. He sighs. There are a lot of reasons that Dean is the way he is, and Sam has enough self-awareness (and a couple Stanford Psych classes) to recognize that their upbringing, their dad, and several decades in hell would have destroyed most people. Dean's strong, he made it through, but his principle coping mechanisms are sarcasm, alcoholism, violence, and vicious repression. It's not exactly what anyone would consider 'healthy.'

Since Cas had fallen, Sam had been waiting for some sort of implosion from Dean. He knows his brother, and a self-loathing inspired lash out was bound to happen sooner or later. He could see it, building up, getting ready to boil over. He really wishes that Dean could just let himself be happy, but, if he did, Sam would likely suspect demonic possession or shape-shifter.

It all came to a head two days ago. Cas had had an incident in Target—a full blown anxiety attack, and Dean had finally snapped. Thankfully, he had held it together till they got home. Sam would have expected nothing else. Dean was good about taking care of others, helping them, saving them, protecting them. He was like that with random strangers, and, with people he cared about, people like Cas and Sam, he would put all his own shit aside to help them in a heartbeat, and that's what he did. But when they had gotten back, when Cas had locked himself up in his room, Dean had looked so damn defeated and then he had just flipped. Sam had braced himself for it. Could see the feeling of inadequacy, the rejection, the blatant hurt on his brother's face in that moment, and he hoped against all hope that Dean would just get it all out of his system. No such luck.

His brother got into a vicious altercation with an old oak on the property, and he came out of the fight significantly worse for the wear. Since then, he's basically been a silent, surly mess of humanity—avoiding Sam and straight up hiding from Cas—which is also extremely mature.

And when Sam says hiding, he really means hiding, locking himself in his room, volunteering to go on any errand to get out of the house, and avoiding Cas like the guy has the plague. Considering that Cas had just had a complete meltdown and was trying to make sense of the world in the wake of it, Dean's avoidance was nothing short of traumatic and baffling. To Sam, who watched their exchanges with frustration and increasing anxiety, it was becoming more and more difficult to figure out a way to intervene peaceably. Dean was giving Sam the cold shoulder, and all Sam had to do was open his mouth for Dean to perform a surly disappearing act. Cas looked abandoned, lost, and exhausted, and Sam tried to communicate that this was not in any way shape or form his fault—Dean's behavior was not on him in the slightest, this was about Dean's issues. Sam rolls his eyes at the kitchen floor. He'd hoped—optimistic to the point of insanity—that Dean would just get over it. He should have known better, Dean never just gets over anything. Sam had tried to broach the subject with Dean this morning, but Dean had outright bolted.

He'd turned his back on Sam, aggressively pushed past Cas, and drove away. Sam's sure that he's fine, hopes that he hasn't done anything preternaturally stupid—he's most likely just using Baby as a therapist, instead of, an infinitely more useful actual therapist—but he's been gone since this morning, and Sam is pissed. He's not screwing around anymore. He's tried to be patient, he's tried to be understanding and supportive, but apparently it's time for some tough love. They are going to talk about this, so help him god. It's one thing to treat Sam this way—Sam is used to Dean being a surly dick every now and then, and Sam is not particularly fragile at the moment—it's a totally different thing to treat Cas this way, because he is presently vulnerable and uncertain, and, really, really unfortunately, taking most of his emotional cues from Dean. It's like he's a barometer for Dean's moods, and Dean is currently an impending hurricane. Poor bastard. Sam takes responsibility for this morning's crisis in that it happened on his watch and he should have been more vigilant, but the severity of Cas' reaction would likely not have been as extreme if Dean hadn't spent the past few days ignoring him.

Sam is finally pleased with the state of the kitchen, confident that no one will get gouged by glass splinters when they walk around barefoot (that would be a spectacularly shitty way to start the day). So he lopes back up the stairs to find Cas studiously at work in the library. Cas is fluent in all languages. His only trouble spots are modern colloquialisms and idiomatic expressions; but he's got a gift for understanding them in ancient dialects, so he's made quick work of the passage that Sam had been having trouble with. Sam is dead grateful, and Cas looks like he's in a much better mood for having been useful, having a purpose, a skill set he can use. They end up working together in the library for the rest of the afternoon. Fun fact: turns out Castiel is ambidextrous and has clean, sharp, easily, legible handwriting.

They eat sandwiches for dinner, and Cas takes a book to his room afterwards because he still tires easily, the air between the two of them is comfortable and warm when they say goodnight.

Dean comes in around ten, and Sam is waiting for him in the living room like a parent with a child out past curfew, torn between worry, anger, and disappointment. Ironically, Dean sort of slinks in like a teenage who knows he broke the rules, shoulders hunched and treading lightly. Sam hears him hang his coat on the rack in the foyer, toe off his boots, and walk down the hall to the sitting room. He marks his place in his book and sets it on the end table, waiting for Dean to round the corner, which he does. He sees Sam and looks, for one instant, like a deer caught in the headlights, before his expression transforms to something hardened and untouchable. So it's gonna be the hard way…

"Where've you been?" Sam asks.

"Out."

"Yeah, I got that. Out where?"

"For a drive, okay?" Dean replies testily as he maneuvers towards the kitchen; Sam follows quickly in his wake.

"All day?" he hisses

Dean roots through the fridge, and Sam leans on the doorframe, blocking the exit and glaring, just as crossly if not more so.

"What are you my prison guard?" Dean japes, a challenging lilt to his voice as he comes out of the fridge with a beer in hand.

"No, I'm your brother," Sam retorts, "the one you ditched to go off god knows where for entire fucking day."

Dean breaks their staring contest first, glancing down and away, muscle in his jaw jumping.

Sam prays for patience, "Talk to me, man," he implores.

Dean drops into one of the kitchen chairs, and Sam walks over and joins him, waiting in silence.

Dean glares at the table top, fiddles absently with his bottle cap.

"Dean—" he prompts.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"The hell there's not."

Silence.

"Dude, level with me. I'm not an idiot, something has been going on with you for weeks. We can't keep this up. If this is going to work, we're going to have to be honest. So be honest with me…what's going on?"

Dean goes totally still and then takes a deep breath like it might be his last and collapses a little. Here we go, Sam thinks.

"I'm not right for this, Sammy," Dean admits.

"For what?"

"This," he gestures expansively at the counters and the living room, "this apple pie shit."

"And I am?" Sam spits back incredulous and annoyed.

Dean shrugs, as if to say, "duh," and Sam's patience, already tenuous, snaps.

"Dean, I am the vessel of Lucifer on earth," he enunciates precisely, "That is kind of the opposite of normal."

"Yeah, well—"

"And, Cas, if you'll recall, spent the past infinity years as a celestial beam of light, for god's sake, that's not exactly normal." By human standards, anyway.

"That's my fucking point!" Dean retorts sharply, levee finally breaking, "The dude is an angel, now he's stuck with the mud monkeys, and I just keep making it worse. Meanwhile, you've been running the hell away from the life since you learned to walk. Dude, I can't—," he runs a hand agitatedly through his hair, "—what the hell am I supposed to do? I'm damn near useless. I don't know how to be normal, and I'm supposed to help Cas adjust? Help you get sorted? Like what the hell, man?"

Sam sighs, "Dean, you are my brother, and I love you, but you need to get over yourself."

That startles him out of his sulking, "What?"

"You think you're the only one who's having a hard adjustment period? The only one freaking out? Dean, none of us know what the hell we're doing."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I'm useless," Dean spits.

"Dean—"

"I'm a killer, Sam," his brother continues, and Sam feels bile rise in the back of his throat, "I'm fucked up, and I know that, all right? I accept it. But, now," he shakes his head, looking frustrated and lost, "there's no damn monsters, so unless I decide to take up serial killing, I don't see what the hell I'm supposed do, just sit here?" until you all realize what a fuck up I am and leave me, Sam hears though Dean doesn't say those words aloud, "I'm not built for this. I break every damn thing I fucking touch, Sam. How long before I fuck this up?"

Sam's heart breaks in the face of Dean's desperation.

"You're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You're scared because you've wanted this," he looks at Dean, earnestly, replicates Dean's expansive gesture: they both know that 'this' is a family, a home, "since you were a kid; and you're terrified it's gonna disappear. I get that, Dean, believe me, I do." Dean regards him warily, shifty, not wanting to admit what they both know is true, and Sam preservers.

"But this isn't the same as when Mom ditched hunting to marry dad," Dean's eyes flash dangerously, painfully, just as they do whenever either of them mentions Mary, "this isn't the same as when I went to Stanford," Jessica on the ceiling burning; it's an image that Sam will never be rid of, but he tries to push it away. Dean's gaze softens. Jessica being referenced, even in passing, their mother's name, even in the slightest way, those names are talismans, and they are not invoked unless the situation is dire and real, unless they mean what they are saying. The memory and the consequences of running away from the life, the fallout that comes from trying to walk away, the death toll, the loss, the inevitable craters, and ruined lives, they understand it on a deep and personal level. Sam more than anyone in the world knows what Dean is afraid off.

He continues, leaning forward, "But this isn't like that Dean. We're not running away, we're not putting our heads in the sand. We've got the okay from god to leave the life and try to be happy. There's not going to be a demon this time."

Dean looks up at Sam, eyes wide and mouth a thin line—simultaneously old and haunted and young and vulnerable—as if to say, 'How can you be sure?'

"You know what I know? We've got a chance here, a chance to be happy, all three of us," he pauses, leans back, crosses his arms and refuses to avert his gaze, "the only thing that's stopping us is us. You can do this; but you've gotta stop shooting yourself in the foot, man. There's literally nothing stopping you from doing this besides you sabotaging yourself because you think you 'don't deserve to be happy'…and, Dean, this might come as a shock to you, but you do deserve to be happy."

Dean snorts derisively.

"You do," Sam persists, "we all do. So get your head out of your ass and try to stop being a dick to yourself and the rest of us."

Dean sighs, but he's not protesting, and he's not running for the door either. Sam takes that as a sign of progress.

"You're pushy, anyone ever tell you that?" Dean takes a drink, and Sam smirks.

"Once or twice," Sam returns. God help him, his brother might actually be listening to him, "So where'd you go?"

"Made it to the coast, then turned around," Dean admits, and Sam shakes his head exasperatedly, "It was very Forrest Gump."

"I can tell. You get it out of your system?"

Dean shrugs, takes another sip, "I realized I had somewhere to be."

Sam smiles a little at that.

"Look, Sammy, I—I'm sorry I freaked out, I shouldn'ta done that—it's just hard, man."

"I know." Sam concedes, because he does. Sam at least has let himself get used to the idea of a life outside of hunting, Dean never has, and it's that much harder to come to grips with it for him.

"How about you?" Dean says to break up the bonding moment, "What did you and Cas get up to today? Besides planning to murder me on sight," he half laughs at the last bit, or he starts to until he sees Sam's face.

Sam takes a deep breath and feels his mouth twitch; Dean, ever vigilant, notices, "Everything okay?"

"Look, just, don't get upset, all right?"

Dean's eyes flash dangerously, body coiling instantaneously in an active fighting posture, "That's really reassuring, Sam. You know conversations that start off with 'don't get upset' usually mean that I should be pretty fucking upset. What the hell happened?"

Sam makes a placating motion with his hands, "Cas had a little bit of an incident."

Dean's eyes flash with a feral glow; he looks ready to bolt up the stairs, "What kind of incident?"

Sam explains in detail the exact nature of the incident, and Dean seems to be on the verge of either shooting something or throwing up.

"—he's fine," Sam finishes, "or as fine as can be expected. He's asleep."

"I need to talk to him," Dean says, firmly, almost desperately.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, calmly, "You do. But you're gonna wait until tomorrow when you've gotten some sleep and look less like a mental hospital escapee."

Dean glowers mutinously, but he knows Sam's right. Sam can tell because of how intense Dean is glaring at him.

"Right now," he continues, "you're going to promise me, that you're not gonna disappear on us again, and then you're gonna go to bed."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean half-protests, "I promise, okay?"

"And if you ever treat Cas like that again, I'm gonna punch you in the face," Sam promises, voice steady.

Dean looks at his brother with something like respect and pride that he's threating someone with physical violence on Cas' behalf as well as sorrow and regret he's currently the threat to Cas' wellbeing, "That's fair."

"All right."

"All right…Are we done?"

"That depends. Are you done being a self-sabotaging jackass?"

"Yeah," Dean rolls his eyes exasperatedly.

"Are you going to stop avoiding Cas?"

"Sam," Dean growls warningly.

Sam glowers at Dean, raises his brows, and crosses his arms, implacable.

"Yes, okay, yes."

"Are you going to communicate your issues using your words, instead of beating up foliage, bolting out of the house, and avoiding people?"

"Bite me, Sam," Dean snaps, before confirming with a sullen but resolute: "Yeah."

Sam smiles beatifically in the face of Dean's infuriation, "Then, yes, we're done here."

"Good," Dean grumbles, but he looks damn exhausted. As much as this day, the past few days really, have cost Sam and Cas, they've been just as hard on Dean, and it's easy to see the weight he carries in the shadows of worry and exhaustion hovering in the dark circles around his eyes, and the creases around his mouth, the stoop of his shoulders like he's carrying the world.

"Dean," Sam stands and he grips Dean's shoulder, "I can't do this without you, man, neither of us can," he half whispers. Dean reaches up and briefly grips Sam's hand—Sam can feel the hardened callouses on his palms; these are the same hands that put band aids on his scrapped knees, and wiped away his tears, and built the Impala from the ground up; they're hands that put Cas back together every day, and make dinner for the three of them every night, and are slowly, carefully, turning this house into a home. For all that they've been hardened by years of destruction, these hands are made for tenderness, too, for comfort, and for healing. Sam wishes Dean could see that, as his brother gently squeezes and releases his hand. The touch is eloquent—I can't do this without you either, little brother. I love you. Thanks. I'm sorry. All those messages are conveyed in a single touch between the brothers. Sam clasps Dean's shoulder once more and then leaves Dean mulling things over in the kitchen. Sam doesn't even bother changing into his pjs before he flops face-first into his bed. It's been a long day, and he's exhausted. He's asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, comfortable in the knowledge that his family is safe at home and maybe a little closer to being whole than it was before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter Ten. Holy hell, how did we even get this far? I'll tell you how: YOU GUYS ARE FUCKING AWESOME. Seriously, thanks you for reading this story and encouraging me to keep working on it.
> 
> Next chapter is angsty and the chapter after that is hella angsty, BUT people will be talking about their feelings, so there is that.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading.


	11. Take My Hand, We'll Make It I Swear

Dean sits at the table for a long while after Sam goes to bed. He finishes his beer, but he doesn’t replace it. He just leans forward, empty bottle before him, elbows braced on the tabletop, tracing the whirls in the wood absently with his thumb. The surface rasps and catches slightly against the calloused pad of his finger. 

It’s quiet. There’s the occasional groan as the house settles, the whir of an appliance coming to life before stilling again. He can hear the softening timbre of the crickets through the open window, and, every so often, the screeching call of a bat in the night. Otherwise, nothing, just Dean alone with his thoughts. 

Truth is: he’s too tired to do much thinking. It’s been a long day, and, after his talk with Sam, Dean’s circuits are fried. So, he just sort of sits there and stares absently at his hands, knuckles still bruised and scabbed, bandages grimy and in need of changing. His eyelids grow heavy, but he lacks the incentive or energy to get up and go to bed. Somnolence eventually overtakes him, and he falls asleep right there, slumped over in the kitchen. 

When he wakes, the grains of the table are digging into his cheekbone and his forehead. He’s sore all over. His neck is twisted at an absurd and uncomfortable angle, and it feels like all of the muscles in his shoulders have stiffened and congealed overnight, roughly resembling beef jerky in suppleness. He groans, as the cacophonous symphony of birdsong forces him to greet the day. Apparently, he’s getting too old for this. 

He slowly sits up, rubbing his face and neck absently. God, he needs a shower—and a shave, he notes as his palm brushes against two-days’ accumulated growth of stubble. 

He’s speculating what the fuck time it is (guessing pretty late to judge from the amount of sun streaming from the open window and forcing Dean to squint at its violent onslaught). He’s wondering why no one bothered to wake him when he becomes aware of the fact that he’s not alone. He startles at the realization that someone, anyone, managed to get the jump on him. He must have been damn tired for that to happen…although, it is Cas, and Cas is pretty good about stealth—another trait that has evidently carried over in the transition from celestial wavelength to human being. 

Cas regards Dean steadily from where he’s perched on the counter, head tilted to the side, fully dressed in a short sleeve black button down and jeans that he bought a few days ago. It’s nice to see Cas in clothes that fit his frame. It’s nice to see Cas, period, Dean amends, guilt and self-consciousness creeping into his awareness. His heart simultaneously leaps and plunges. He feels a little light headed and a lot nauseous. Cas’ hands are behind his back, but Dean can see the bandages still covering the length of his forearms. It looks like he’s just wearing a long-sleeve thermal under the short-sleeves. The bandages are a lot lighter than they used to be, for which Dean is grateful, but he can’t help but think that he wasn’t around yesterday to help patch Cas up, or to prevent him from getting hurt more. 

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas intones, shaking Dean from his reverie—in the midst of which his mouth had been hanging slightly open while he blatantly stared at Cas. The hunter snaps his jaw shut, clears his throat, and shifts awkwardly, rubbing a nervous hand against the back of his reddening neck. He feels like he ought to make a smart remark about Cas watching him sleep like a creeper, but, honestly, Dean’s not sure that he cares anymore; he kind of likes the familiarity of the gesture, and, really, he’s been watching Cas sleep more often than not lately.

Dean experiences a strange sort of panic at being left alone with Cas for the first time in three days. He knew he’d have to do this eventually, but he had hoped that he’d have a chance to at least brace himself for it, and maybe would have had time to brush his teeth and get changed out of his rumpled shirt and dirty jeans. Well, what a surprise, things aren’t going to plan, boo-fucking-hoo, he scolds himself—his mental voice sounds a little bit like Bobby this morning—man up and deal with it. You promised Sam and you promised yourself. He sighs internally. 

“Mornin’” he replies, tongue heavy in his mouth, voice croaking with disuse, “What time’s it?”

“A little past ten.”

Dean raises his brows, “And no one woke me?”

Cas continues to focus his discerning gaze on Dean, who does his best not to continually shift under the scrutiny, “Sam thought that you needed the sleep.”

“I bet.”

“He was quite insistent.”

Well that tallies: last night, Sam was pretty damn insistent that Dean needed to be fully rested before he even considered coming within twenty feet of Castiel. He didn’t want exhaustion to spur his brother on towards impulsive or stupid behavior—they both know that Dean is good enough at that while fully energized and sober, no need to add any extraneous factors to the mix. He should feel pissed at Sam for treating him like a sulking teenager having an emotional crisis, but he’s too tired, and, truthfully, Sam is right. Dean is resigned to it and he’s a little thankful for his little brother’s stubborn inclination to patch things up in this patchwork family. He should probably get the kid a beer or a new dictionary as a sign of peace and gratitude. Speaking of Sam…

“Where is Gigantor anyway?”

“He went to ‘run some errands,’” Cas’ finger punctuation is sharp and clear. 

The two of them share a look—Sam left them here alone to settle their scores, as it were—it’s the polite way of locking them in a closet till they kiss and make up (not that Dean is in any way shape or form actively thinking about kissing Cas…). This approach is only slightly more subtle, and, if this method doesn’t work out, there is no doubt whatsoever in Dean’s mind that Sam will resort to increasingly desperate tactics, which may or may not include actually locking them in a room together—probably Bobby’s panic room. He knows that he himself is the primary impetus behind these drastic actions, and he’s a little shamefaced about it. 

Fuck, what a damn mess. 

So clean it up, boy, the Bobby in his head barks with an exaggerated eye-roll. He clears his throat

“Guess it’s just you and me, huh?” Dean smiles tentatively, while he rubs at the back of his neck again—antsy—before becoming conscious of the motion and quickly aborting it. 

Cas narrows his eyes suspiciously and then shrugs as if to say ‘so it would seem.’ The gesture sits somewhat awkwardly on his shoulders—body language recently acquired and incorporated into his vernacular, rather than a natural extension of his flesh—but the sentiment behind it does not; it is completely genuine, justified, and innate. Cas isn’t expressing anxiety outwardly, like Dean is, but he looks uncomfortable somehow, the stiff and unyielding posture, like he’s bracing himself against an inevitable blow—sitting ramrod straight and blinking slowly, averting his gaze every so often under Dean’s stare—it belies a case of nerves. 

They sit just regarding each other for a few moments. The silence is awkward and uneasy with words and feelings unspoken. They glance at one another and away, taking it in turns so that their gazes catch only occasionally. Somewhere, Dean is certain, Sam can feel the tension and starts to pull his hair in frustration and despair at the two idiots with whom he’s been cursed. Dean shakes his head at the image. He honestly doesn’t know what to say right now. 

He could (and, indeed, should) begin with admitting that he royally fucked up and he’s damn sorry. This whole thing is his fault. He’s an idiot. Any of those would give them an auspicious start, but the words get caught in his throat. He knows the degree of his infraction; and, if truth be told, he should probably be on his knees groveling right now, but he’s frozen, keeps opening his mouth and shutting it rapidly. 

The great, suave, charming Dean Winchester: ladies’ man, card shark, and con artist extraordinaire, is unable to form a coherent sentence. He has been defeated. It’s shameful, inexplicable: who would have thought they would ever see this day? To the best of his knowledge, hell hasn’t frozen over, but Dean’s never been so lost for words. It takes him three minutes of gaping like a fish, before he realizes that the problem isn’t that he can no longer fabricate stories; hell, he can still bullshit and lie through his teeth and have the civvies eating out of the palm of his hand. No, the problem is that he doesn’t need a story or a lie here; he doesn’t want a story or a lie, not now, not for Cas—and it isn’t just because Cas would flay him alive or see right through him, and it isn’t because Sam would disown him, and Bobby would shake his head in blatant disapproval and disappointment—no, it’s that Cas doesn’t deserve a story, a lie, or an excuse. He deserves the truth. He deserves an apology. And that means that Dean has to fess up, and his throat is closed against the tidal wave of emotion that’s trying to burst free, because he’s afraid of what he might say, afraid of what Cas will do when he hears it, and, most of all, afraid that he’s not worthy of forgiveness. He never has been before. 

Thankfully, after his eleventh aborted attempt to begin a conversation, Castiel steps in and saves him. Thank fucking god for that. It’s ironic, given that the fast talker is being bested by the most socially awkward individual in heaven or earth in basic niceties. Gabriel would probably get a kick out of this, but Dean just wants to smash his face against the table and maybe hit the reset button on his life.

“Would you like some coffee?” Cas queries simply, almost no inflection to his voice. It’s because of that that Dean isn’t a hundred percent sure if Cas genuinely wants to make the offer, or if he’s just searching for something to break the uneasy silence. Dean will take it either way, at this point he’s not picky, and the gesture of peace is way more than he deserves. 

“Yeah, sure,” he replies quickly, almost eagerly, and Cas contemplates his response with narrowed eyes. Apparently, his question was a very important one, since he’s clearly weighing the sincerity of Dean’s response. Dean is reminded absurdly of the Grail Knight in Last Crusade, ‘you must choose wisely,’ he had warned the hero. Yeah, well, it’d be a lot easier if someone just told me the right fucking answers, buddy, Dean thinks, so that I stop fucking everything up. 

It takes him a second of self-loathing to realize that Sam basically had given him the answers: “You’ve just gotta let yourself be happy.” Dean just has to execute them. Easier said than done…He tries not to fidget under Cas’ freaky angelic judgment, but evidently (finally), he decides that Dean’s desire for coffee is pure or something, because he nods once and gets to his feet. Dean feels absurdly relieved, like he just passed some kind of test, like he had had his soul x-rayed, and Cas had found something worthwhile deep in the darkness of him. Somehow, yet again, Dean miraculously passed muster, though how in the hell he managed that he will never know. In fact, how Cas can have such high standards and such low standards at the same time will forever baffle him. He should probably just be grateful for that rather than trying to convince Cas that he can do better because, if Cas were to see the error of his ways, Dean would be royally screwed.

As Cas propels himself off the counter, Dean gets his first look at his hands. Sam had warned him of course, ‘Be cool, Dean, okay? He was really upset about it, and was upset that you would be upset, so, please, don’t freak out when you see him.’ He would have teased Sam about how many times he used the word ‘upset’ in that sentence ‘dude, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore,’ but he hadn’t had the heart. The severity of the situation eclipsed any and all quips, puns, and attempts at levity, which, for Dean, who tries to joke and bluff his way out of anything resembling emotional connection, weighty issues, or life and death circumstances, was really saying something. Until this moment, Cas had had his hands behind him, but now, as he moves towards the stove top, Dean can see that the gauze doesn’t stop at his wrists, but extends the full length of his arm, all the way to his fingertips. The bandages are crisp where they encase his palms. 

Cas moves slowly and efficiently as he finagles with several pots on the stove. His gestures and movements are careful and precise—calculated. Perhaps because of the mishap yesterday—no, Dean corrects himself, Cas always moves like that. Like what he’s doing matters. It’s just usually more fluid. He’s stiff, wrapped in gauze and ointment, sore all over probably. You’d move slowly, too…well, probably not, but Dean has a habit of being brash about his own bodily injuries, where he tries to cosset Sam and Cas as much as possible. That doubtless says a lot about him as a person, but he refuses, point blank, to analyze what exactly it means.

Cas isn’t flaunting his injuries (recent or otherwise), but he doesn’t make any move to conceal them either, and Dean is struck anew with a fresh wave of guilt—he’s spent three whole days straight up hiding from Cas because he was ashamed of his own injuries and didn’t want to upset him…but, he’s starting to wonder who the hell he’d been trying to protect, and coming to the increasingly disturbing conclusion that the answer to that question might be himself. 

After a few moments, Cas sets a mug before Dean, its contents steaming lightly, the aroma rich and evocative. It’s the mug Sam chose for his brother—lime green letters proudly proclaiming FREE HUGS in bold print on a hot pink background. It’s obnoxious and annoying, and, when Sam had given it to him, Dean had glared at his brother, shoved the kid affectionately to the side, and griped about how butt ugly it was, but he secretly loves it, and everyone knows it. He likes that it’s his mug and no one else’s, he likes that Sam chose it to get a rise out of him, he likes that Cas automatically selects this cup for him from the cabinet—he likes that, in addition, to prostituting him out for hugs, the mug proclaims, ‘hey, this is mine, I belong here with them.’ He hopes for the other members of this broken family that he can pull his shit together and be worthy of their continued patience. 

Cas doesn’t return to his perch. Instead, he sits next to Dean, settling into the adjacent chair carefully, his own mug (much more subdued than Dean’s—cream earthenware with a pattern of leaves and grass) clutched safe and secure in both of his gauze clad hands. 

“Thanks,” Dean says, before taking a tentative sip. It’s strong—rocket fuel—and rich. There’s a nutty, almost earthy, flavor to it. It’s really damn good. He takes another swallow, and sighs, feeling the caffeine hit his bloodstream and start to clear the residual cobwebs from his brain. 

Cas watches, contemplative, as he sips his own brew. 

“It’s really good,” Dean admits, an inflection of surprise to his voice.

Cas cocks an eyebrow. Dean takes it as an admonishment (‘What did you expect?’) and as a sign that he’s permitted to continue the conversation if he so chooses. It’s your move, Dean…

“Where’d you learn to make it?” God knows that Dean didn’t teach him this, and, as far as he knows, Sam didn’t sideline as a barista at Stanford, so unless Cas is just naturally gifted…

Cas’ mouth tilts upwards at the corners, “It’s an old art amongst your kind. I often enjoyed watching humans imbibe this brew as part of communal and ceremonial gatherings—” there’s a slight twinge of nostalgia or wistfulness to his faraway voice, and Dean wonders how many times Cas had to sit on the outside looking in—watching families and friends and strangers—not allowed to participate, with no one of his own, unless you counted his fucked up angel brothers, which Dean totally does not. The thought of Cas drifting and alone for centuries upon centuries upon centuries, it makes Dean sad, makes him want to just take Cas in his arms and never let go—ever. You have a home now, he wants to shout, you have a home here with me, and I’ll make it better, I’ll be better, I swear. I’ll never make you feel like you’re on the outside again. I won’t leave you. I’m sorry. Because he realizes that that’s exactly what he did. He’d ditched Cas—because of his own shit, admittedly—but he hadn’t explained a damn thing about it and had left Cas wandering around for days feeling rejected and confused and hurt to boot, wondering what the fuck he had done wrong. He’d made Cas, of all people, feel like the fuck up when it was Dean all along. I am an asshole, he decides, and I’ve gotta make this right. If I can... 

“—I am acquiring a taste for it,” Cas concludes as he takes another sip. Dean just blinks, feeling as if he might explode.

He’s pretty sure that at some point he had a modicum of self-respect, some shred of control, a filter. He wanted to be cool and calm for this, but apparently, somewhere along the way, that just all went right out the window, because as soon as Cas finishes his sentence, Dean just combusts. Sam would face palm if he could see it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. He actually almost shouts. Cas blinks at the outburst. 

“I shouldn’t’ve bailed. I—I was freaked out and I just…I couldn’t handle it anymore—”

Cas looks like Dean has slapped him across the face, and Dean sort of leaps forward in his chair, knocking his knee hard against the table leg in an attempt to make Cas understand, because he can’t fuck this up too, “—not you, man, not you, it wasn’t you, it was me, like, I just—fuck, I sound like a damn high school girl—I just—fuck—”

Cas’ eyes are narrowed to slits, his face a moue of frustration and abject confusion. He’s verging on the look of an angel ready to smite the shit out of someone.

Dean takes a deep breath, You can do this, Winchester.

“I freaked out, because I can’t seem to fucking do anything right and I—I fucked up, Cas, hell, I always fuck up, and you—” you deserve better than me, “—you and Sam, you should be happy, man, I want you to be happy, but I keep making shit worse, and I—ah, that’s not an excuse for me to run away, I just, I thought that, that maybe you were better off without me, and, I needed to clear my head, and I—I’m sorry.”

Dean delivers the last bit to his own palms, and a deafening silence ensues when he finishes his really fucking eloquent speech. He glances at Cas from beneath his lashes and, yeah, he’s full on frowning, not that Dean blames him, but, at least it’s not smite-worthy glaring? He can take solace in that, he supposes. He bows his head, bites his lip, and waits for judgment, but he can’t stand the terse lull, he races to fill it, perhaps to delay the inevitable, tongue tripping over his words. 

“I shouln’t’ve left like that, it was stupid, and it was fucking me being a pussy, and I just, you shouldn’t even bother—I don’t wanna fuck this up, and I just can’t seem to—” Dean is straight up babbling, his words jumbled and confused but no less heartfelt for that. He’s almost choking on them and he can’t seem to stem the tide now that the dam’s burst. He doesn’t know how to stop, he’s not even sure what’s he saying, but it burns. 

That’s when a bandaged hand comes into his range of vision. Long slender fingers, still some reddish brown blood dried in the cuticles. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, lest the hand withdraw, but instead it creeps closer. Cas hesitates for a moment, hovering and shaking before he places his warm palm on Dean’s and holds, gently at first, a shudder racing up his forearm, and then, after a moment, more firmly. Dean just stares at the sight, feels like a sun has come to rest in his palm, warmth stretching outward from the point of contact, lighting him up from the inside out. This is the first time that Cas has reached out for him, the first time that Cas has sought contact. It’s kind of a miracle. It’s the closest thing to benediction that Dean will ever receive in his life. He doesn’t want to blink, in case Cas disappears, lest he remove this fucking blessed contact. 

He looks at Cas, whose expression has softened. It seems almost sorrowful, but not wrathful, not at all. He squeezes Dean’s fingers, and Dean squeezes back. They just hold on for a moment like that in silence, connected, tethered, more grounded that either of them has been in weeks, and Dean has a moment to recognize that their hands slot together like puzzle pieces, a perfect fit, and he’s too overwhelmed by that realization to even understand where it came from. 

“Dean,” Cas finally speaks, “I—you do not, as you say, ‘fuck everything up.’”

Dean snorts and shakes his head because that is a load of shit.

Cas’ mouth purses in consternation, he sighs audibly, “You often fix broken things…like me.”

Dean is nonplussed, his eyes widen in surprise and denial; flabbergasted he retorts, “Cas, you’re not broken.”

Cas’ brows nearly hit his hairline with incredulity, “I am extremely broken, Dean.”

“You’re not anymore broken than me,” Dean frowns. This isn’t supposed to be a sick competition about who’s more fucked up. That’s not what this is supposed to be at all.

“And you did not break me,” Cas continues, ignoring Dean’s interruption, “Not every bad thing that happens is your fault, Dean,” Castiel sighs, “You did not make me fall.”

Dean isn’t totally sure that he believes that. He’s not even sure that he believes it a little bit. He’s not sure that Cas believes it either, but, finally, he’s not sure he wants to argue the point. 

“Dean, you frequently put me back together,” Cas frowns in concentration, desperately fumbling with useless human words in order to explain something so much bigger, urgently trying to make Dean understand, “if I had not fallen where I had—”

“Hey, we would have found you,” Dean’s promises fiercely; his voice brooks no argument, because if he had to fucking dig his way through the Arctic, come hell or high water, he would have found Cas, and he would have killed anyone or anything that stood in his way. He holds fast to Cas’ hand, hoping that Cas can feel that certainty, the same way that Dean does. 

“I know,” Cas smiles softly, sadly, and his naked trust does something very peculiar to Dean’s heart. He places his other hand on top of Cas’ and holds on tight, Cas flinches at the contact. 

“Shit,” Dean hisses, he is really fucking this up, “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I—” Cas hesitates, but when Dean tries to draw away, he intervenes, “don’t.” 

Dean frowns and stills. 

“I—,” Cas struggles for a moment; Dean can see him grappling to find words to help him express something for which there is no suitable explanation, “You didn’t hurt me. I—” he trails off.

“You what? Talk to me, man,” Because this exchange might be important. It might be the way to fix this, and he needs to listen to Cas; Cas listened to him. 

“I—human perception is different,” he looks incredibly frustrated, seethes slightly with annoyance, “I didn’t just lose my wings, Dean.”

There’s a sinking sensation in Dean’s stomach at that pronouncement, “What do you mean?”

Cas takes a deep breath, and Dean swears it looks like he might cry. He knew that something else was wrong, he fucking knew it, but this is the first that Cas seems ready and willing to give voice to it. And like Dean, when he starts to give voice to it, he can’t seem to stop.

“I used to be able to see things…I used to be able to see you. I could hear my brothers and sisters always. I—I understood things, complex things, and I knew; I knew the universe in all its splendors and multitudes. Now I,” he huffs a sigh, “I have been rendered blind and deaf. There is silence and I can’t see.

“You don’t hurt me,” he continues, “not physically, it’s…it hurts, but it isn’t—it’s uncomfortable? It’s—these sensations are unfamiliar to me. Angels do not feel as humans do. Touch is—I feel things and they burn. It’s as if my skin has been flayed raw, but not all of it has, and it is worse in the sections that are not wounded.”

Dean can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He doesn’t know what to say. Cas is suffering sensory overload and sensory deprivation at the same time. 

“I have been abandoned by my father and my family and,” there are definitely tears in Cas’ eyes now, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of them; Dean is, acutely, “I believe that the inability to even experience the comfort that you offer,” he brushes his thumb against Dean’s palm, the comfort of touch, the comfort of connection, “I believe that that is, ah, part of the punishment.”

He finally faces Dean with a strange lopsided grin, a trembling lower lip, and a tear slowly tracking its way down his cheek, “So when I say that I am broken, Dean…” he shrugs, and Dean vaguely recognizes the feeling in his chest as his heart breaking, which, huh, he didn’t think it could still do that, after everything…

“Hey,” Dean says, voice low and firm, “Cas, listen to me, okay? You’re not broken,” he tries desperately to make Cas see that, to catch his gaze and hold it, because this is important, so important, “and you don’t deserve any of the shit that you’ve been through, okay? None of this is your fault.”

Cas shakes his head, “I’m of no use to you like this. I know that I am a burden,” yep, definitely his heart breaking, “I—I did not blame you for leaving as you did.”

Fuck. “You are not a damn burden, Cas. Never, all right? I—I’m a damn idiot for leaving yesterday, okay? That was on me. It had nothing to do with you.”

Cas raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, it did have to do with you, but you didn’t do anything, it was more about how I’m not good for you. I felt like a burden to you and Sam.”

Cas looks at Dean like he can’t believe what he’s hearing and he seems concerned that Dean might actually have lost his mind. It’s surprisingly close to a bitch face. Sam would be proud.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore than you do. I was embarrassed about how much I’ve been fucking up, but, Cas? I would never leave you,” Dean vows, gruff and earnest, “Never, Cas, I swear.” Dean doesn’t back on a promise, they both know it, “We’re family, and family’s gotta stick together, even when some of them are idiots, okay?”

“Sam said something similar yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a smart kid.”

Cas nods sagely, and Dean struggles with the desire to wipe away his tears, but then Cas chuckles wetly and Dean’s startled from the notion. 

“What?”

“We’re a pair,” Cas says, nodding at their hands which are still interlocked. Normally this would be the part where Dean would pull away, awkward and self-conscious, but he doesn’t. 

“Yeah, guess we are.” He smiles slightly. Dean’s bandages are grimy and badly in need of changing. His left hand, the less damaged one, is bruised, abrasions across his knuckles. Cas’ palms are wrecked, but the gauze that shields them is clean and new. They do make a pair. They’re both broken in different ways, but the cuts are just as deep. 

“I didn’t want you to see,” Dean admits softly, if they’re gonna be honest, might as well just keep goin’ with it, “that’s why I was avoiding you.”

Cas narrows his eyes, “You should not have felt that way.”

Dean shrugs, “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“I am upset that you’re injured,” Cas replies, slowly, “but I was more upset that you were hiding.”

“I know. I shoulda known that; I used to hate it when you would just disappear and shit.”

“I have recently developed an understanding of that sentiment,” he admits wryly, “Please, don’t do it again,” Cas’ jaw clenches, and there is sincerity in the plea.

Dean swallows past a lump in his throat, “I won’t.”

He gently taps Cas’ knuckles and catches his eye, “Don’t you disappear either, okay?”

Cas nods solemnly “I promise.”

It feels like a weight has lifted from Dean’s chest, “Good.”

Turns out they need each other. Huh, who knew? 

It settles after that. Dean (finally) releases Cas’ hand to go and take a much needed shower, and Cas clears their mugs and puts them in the sink. 

Dean turns the water up as hot as he can stand it. It burns against his skin. The bathroom quickly fills with steam. He rests his forehead against the wall, letting the water pound over his back and his bowed head. Closes his eyes, in something like relief and gratitude—if he believed in god, he’d probably say a prayer of thanks, a plea for strength, but he doesn’t, so he won’t.

He cleans up, quick and efficient. Shaves, brushes his teeth, which is a fucking relief (it had started to feel a bit like his tongue was growing mold or something). He gets dressed: jeans, boots, faded grey t-shirt, cause it’s gonna be a hot one. He trundles down the stairs to find Cas sitting on the front porch, in the full glow of the sun, book open on his lap.

The birds are singing, the sun is shining, Dean takes a big gulp of air; it’s a brand new day and the weight that’s been sitting on his shoulders is, well, it isn’t gone, it will probably never really be gone, but it’s lighter. 

He drops down next to Cas, “Whatcha readin’?”

Cas pronounces the title, in French.

“How’s it goin?”

“It’s interesting; I appreciate the author’s attempt to represent the metaphysical in celestial terms.”

Dean smiles, and Cas grins, slowly at first, then more resilient.

Dean sits with Cas, just watching him, thankful that he’s here and okay and didn’t reject the hell out of Dean when he totally could have. Cas keeps reading in the sunlight, color blooming in his exposed skin. Cas occasionally reads passages aloud to Dean (even though they both know that Dean can’t understand French for shit), but Cas has a really nice voice, and Dean leans back and dozes intermittently, while Cas softly intones the words. 

“How’s it going there, sleeping beauty?” Sam says when he comes back and lightly kicks Dean’s leg. 

“Shut up, bitch,” he retorts, refusing to move. He can practically feel Sam’s smile, bright and blinding like the sun. 

“How was the ‘running of errands’? Cas asks, and Dean smirks because he’s ninety-eight percent positive that Cas just sassed his baby brother…just like old times. 

“Good, I think I got what we needed,” he replies, totally busted, but still smug as all hell, 

“Everything okay while I was out?” he asks, only the tiniest twinge of trepidation in his voice.

“All good, Sammy,” he opens his eyes enough to see his brother’s form towering over him, and Cas give an emphatic nod in response to the question. Dean flashes him a broad smile and winks. Cas blinks owlishly in response, which might be his attempt to return the gesture, and Dean just chuckles and closes his eyes, while Cas blushes and goes back to his book. 

Sam basically skips up the steps. 

“I hope you put gas in her,” Dean calls.

“I’m not an idiot.”

And somehow, miraculously, peace is restored to the universe, at least, for now. 

Dean decides to complete this image of domestic bliss by washing his Baby (“Dude, there’s nothing wrong with her” “Just checking”). Sam disappears inside (and Dean thinks he’s gonna sulk or something), but he comes back five minutes later with a stack of books.

He shrugs at Dean’s cocked eyebrow, “It’s a nice day,” he hands a pen to Cas with an admonishment, “In English this time, we’re not all omni-lingual, here,” before settling on the opposite side of the steps.

Cas accepts it with the very tiniest smile, almost invisible, “Of course.”

Dean fills a bucket with suds and water, turns on the radio, “Don’t Look Back,” blares out of the speakers. 

“Boston?” Sam jibes.

“‘It’s been too long since I’ve felt this way,’” Dean sings back, loud and off-key, as he turns the music up. Cas tries and fails to hide a wider smile, and Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he too is grinning. 

Dean transforms the carwash into a labor of love. New day, new start—he thinks as he washes off the grime of his impromptu road trip—no more—he glances at his brother and his angel, chattering about exorcisms, as he wipes sweat off of his brow—at least, not without them. 

Sam occasionally asks Cas longwinded questions, and Cas gives extremely detailed replies. Dean tosses in his two cents every now and again. 

Before long, the Impala is gleaming, black and shining in the light. He can see his reflection fully detailed in the hood. 

Cas comes to perch closer to Dean, who drags him up and shows him how to properly apply a coat of wax to the trunk. 

“Just like Miyagi said, ‘wax on; wax off,’” when Cas makes a ‘what the fuck are you talking about?’ face, Dean rolls his eyes and laughs, “—I’ll explain it to you later.”

Dean watches Cas with something like pride and affection. He can see his shoulders flex and slide under his shirt and it’s mesmerizing. Dean clears his throat and tells Cas that he’s doin’ great. Sam overlooks the proceedings with a pleased, somewhat secretive, smirk. The clandestine joy is enough to have Dean spray Sam with the hose and laugh hysterically when Sam sputters, leaping to his feet. 

The game is on; Cas regards them as if they’ve gone mental and he runs to protect the books from further harm. By the end of things, Sam has a lot of soap in his hair, Dean’s shirt is sopping wet, and Cas is glaring at them both through a thoroughly drenched fringe and eyelashes. Dean and Sam shove and blame each other under his chastising glare.

“You started it!”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right, Samantha.”

“I understand,” Cas finally says, still scowling, like they both deserve to be put into perpetual time outs, “why Bobby Singer calls you both ‘idjits.’”

Sam looks affronted; Dean beams like he just got the highest of compliments, and Cas warily shakes his head, composure breaking into a slight grin.

They dry out in the sun and spend the afternoon talking about nothing. Sam’s errands, which were, Dean maintains, totally a pretext for leaving him and Cas alone all morning, were apparently to visit the local Farmer’s Market. He’s singing its praises in vivid detail that leaves Dean mildly disgruntled and confused. Sam is going to turn into one of those organic hipster freaks. He can feel it. The kid already had a predisposition. Apparently, Sam is embracing this identity in full force, as he explains about local growers and vegetables and everything. Cas has his head cocked to the side, absorbing the information readily and obviously intrigued. Dean has to be careful before he loses them both to the dark and swirling vortex of domesticity, although, really, there are worse things that he could lose them to, so he can probably settle with this. He actually finds himself, in the midst of teasing Sam, perking up in response to his brother’s epic tale of a local bakery that sets up a stall at the market and gave samples of berry cobbler that were, ‘out of this world, dude.’ Sam can play him like a fiddle, and the damn bastard knows it, but Dean might be willing to go with it if it gets him pie. Sam suggests that Cas come with him, and Dean too, next week. His eyes get a little shifty with embarrassment and hopefulness, ‘We can make a day of it…when you’re up for it obviously, no pressure.” Castiel seriously considers the offer, “I think that would be enjoyable, Sam.”

Samsquatch is on dinner duty tonight, so while he heads into the kitchen, Dean fires up the grill (that’s what Sam disappeared to buy during the disastrous trip to Target). Cas sits on the front steps with several plates and a look of utter focus on his face as he spears vegetables onto skewers in complex patterns of color and texture. Sam joins them with chicken breasts slathered in marinade. Dean cooks them with gusto, drinking a beer, while Cas tries raw peppers (they’re a hit; his eyes do this really cool exuberant pop, like, ‘woah, what even did I just put in my mouth…I like it’ Dean laughs). 

They eat on the porch. Everything, including the veggies, is awesome. Grilled zucchini is apparently natures’ candy or some shit like that. Cas is so fucking into the vegetables that Dean fears he might have a burgeoning vegetarian on his hands. Sam looks at him as if to say, ‘sweet victory: colorful, healthy, various, points for healthy eaters. IN YOUR FACE.’ Dean gives him an exaggerated eye roll. 

Dean cleans up everything afterwards. Turns out Sam did, in fact, pick up a cobbler for all of them, which they eat with ice-cream.

“I want to marry this woman,” Dean says mouth full of blueberries, vanilla, and crumbly crust; flavors rushing to his brain. He might have just achieved a state of nirvana. 

“I think she’s already taken,” Sam returns. 

“Damn,” Dean says. Cas looks weirdly upset, “What d’you think, Cas?” 

“It’s very flavorful,” he replies.

Sam glares at Dean briefly, and turns to Cas, “He was kidding about marrying the pie-lady, Castiel.”

“Oh.” His face and demeanor lighten considerably, and Dean wonders what the fuck that was about. Sam shakes his head, bitch face #16 you’re so oblivious; if it’s weren’t so annoying, it would actually be sad.

Dean muses that they really need to get like a fire pit or something. Sam proposes that a chimenea would be a better option. 

“Really, dude?”

“What?”

Dean waves his hand in a combination of dismissal and disgust, but forgives Sam readily when it turns out that he bought fixings for s’mores. 

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says setting up a marshmallow on a stick and offering it to Castiel, “this is one of the perks of humanity.”

“Sugar highs and cavities,” Sam snarks, but he practically skips with anticipation, as they hover around the grill turned impromptu fire pit.

“You shut your filthy mouth.”

Sam and Dean have very different ideas about the proper way to roast a marshmallow. Dean is in full support of methodically roasting his with a precision focus to creating an even golden glow. Sam, perhaps surprisingly, holds his perilously close to the flames, constantly on the verge of catching fire, and occasionally just straight up roasting, such that Sam has to quickly blow out the flaming ball of sugary goo. 

Cas is probably the slowest marshmallow roaster alive. He doesn’t want it to catch on fire, and so he holds it so far back from the flames, that it barely gets any heat. Dean has already consumed four s’mores, chewing with his mouth open to make Sam fake gag, by the time Cas finishes his first marshmallow.

Cas makes the weirdest face ever when he eats the gooey chocolaty mess. It’s like he’s torn between ecstasy at the sugar rush and pure disgust at the sticky crap leaking all over his fingers, but he eats three more before he’s done. 

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean says, later, when Cas has gone inside to shower, and it’s just the two of them, watching the embers die down.

“It’s just s’mores, Dean.”

“That’s not what I’m talkin’ bout.”

“I know,” Sam takes a swig of his beer, soft smile playing at the corner of his mouth, “and you’re welcome.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean heads inside soon after, “You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good, just gonna sit for a while…you go take care of Cas.”

“Night, Sammy.”

Dean washes the residual marshmallow off his hands and takes a steadying breath. He’s absurdly nervous, like he was this morning, but different. A few weeks as a civilian and he’s already acting like a girl, Jesus, that’s a bad sign. 

He takes the stairs more slowly than usual to catch his breath or let himself get a handle on this weird jumpy feeling in the pit of his stomach—a feeling that has a strong resemblance to anticipation.

Cas’ door is cracked, but Dean knocks anyway before gently pushing it all the way open. 

Cas is sitting on his bed, one leg tucked under him, the other dangling off the edge. He’s wearing grey pajama bottoms in soft cotton and that’s it. His torso is totally bare, still damp from his shower and the warm sultry night, glistening slightly in the twilight.

He looks up at Dean when he enters, blue eyes bright under his dark fringe, which falls damp over his forehead, the rest stands at attention in messy mismatched spikes and whorls. He’s clearly been waiting here for Dean, probably not for more than a few moments, but that knowledge feeds fuel to the fire in Dean’s abdomen.

He just stares rapt at Cas, whatever attempts he’d made to calm down on his way up here immediately evaporate at the sight of him. His mouth may be hanging slightly open before he realizes that he’s just standing in the doorway gawking like an idiot. 

Cas tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, face a play in light and shadow. 

Dean shakes himself, “Need a hand?”

“Of course,” it could be Dean’s imagination, exhaustion, or the impending sugar coma, but Cas’ voice sounds deeper than usual, and it sparks the heat already coiling in Dean’s gut. 

Dean licks his lips, bites the lower one, and then smiles much easier than he feels. 

He gently sits on the bed behind Cas, who watches his movements, tracking him with his eyes, but remains still as a statue.

Cas’ back is a terrain of dips and valleys, skin still raw and mottled in shades of pink and red, the imprint of wings. Dean never fails to be amazed by the fact that, though he’s healing rapidly, the distinctly feathered pattern on his back and his arms don’t seem to be fading at all, in fact, they just become increasingly clarified. He supposes that’s what happens when god wants to make a point, or maybe it’s just the nature of celestial touch on human flesh. The handprint on his shoulder has never faded—and he’s secretly thankful for that. He wonders if Cas is, or ever will be, thankful for this constant reminder of who he used to be, of what’s he’s lost…

“I’m gonna touch you, Cas,” Dean’s voice, too, has become rough, “okay?”

Cas turns his face so that Dean can see the solemn cast of his profile in the semi-darkness, “Okay.”

Dean bites his lip again, chews it thoughtfully, exhales—get a grip, dude.

He skates his fingers across Cas’ shoulders, just above where the burns begin, and it’s like a shock of electricity to his skin, makes Dean shudder, and Cas shiver and hiss.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispers. 

“No, no, you didn’t,” Cas replies, voice shaky, “Keep going.”

Dean clenches his jaw and does as he’s told. His touch is gentle, careful, his palms warm the ointment, and he spreads it, almost massages it, into every divot, curve, and scar. Tracing the edge of what was once a primary feather with the pad of his thumb and carefully soothing the ghosts of the auxiliaries with his fingertips, feeling the knobs of Cas’ spine, the muscles of his shoulders, that had so entranced him earlier. Dean touches the impressions of feathers and the reality of flesh and he finds it difficult to breathe. 

Cas holds as still as possible, occasionally trembling. 

“I think that we can leave off the bandages for the night,” Dean finally says, “If you’re cool with sleeping on your stomach.”

“I can try,” Cas says, as if sleep in general is a strange and elusive concept, which it is. 

“All right,” Dean encourages, trying to distract himself with professional field doctor talk, “this is good, man, you’re getting better,” Dean says and he wonders why that leaves him feeling strangely bereft. He wants Cas to get better, of course he does. So why the disappointment? Is it because Cas won’t need him anymore? Cause that’s dickish, even for him—no, he realizes finally, it’s because when Cas is better, they won’t have this anymore. It won’t be the two of them, sitting in the quiet in the dark like this, Dean’s hands on Cas’ skin, free to touch and caress and roam free without consequence. Holy shit, Dean breathes, I’m a goddamn pervert. He’s my best friend, the guys hurt and you want to grope him while he’s—oh, fuck, his eyes fly wide because he might have just had an epiphany. Shit. 

“Dean?” Cas prompts, because Dean’s hand is still resting gently on the slope of Cas’ neck. 

“Yeah, sorry, just spaced out for a minute,” Dean takes a deep inhale, “let me get your arms.”

Cas’ triceps are okay, healing nicely, but, for some reason that doesn’t necessarily make any logical sense (but, then, what does?), Cas’ forearms are probably the most raw of his burns. 

Cas turns without being told when Dean’s hands still, lingering for a brief moment at Cas’ elbows. 

Suddenly, Cas is extremely close to Dean, in that inability to distinguish personal boundaries sort of way. His eyes are fixed on Dean’s face, and Dean can’t help the way that his own eyes flick down to the soft swell of Cas’ lower lip, only inches away, wondering if it would feel soft against his own mouth—Get a hold of yourself, dude.

“Here,” Dean holds out a hand and Cas gently rests his palm into it, a good fit, another jolt of electricity. Cas has goose-bumps, “You cold?”

“No,” Cas whispers. 

Dean is careful as he moves his fingers and palms in slow circles over Cas’ arm, wrapping fresh strips of gauze over the feathered marks. He moves to the other side, and then Cas, with his eyes fixed on Dean, flips his hands so that the palms face upward, gently nestled in Dean’s. They’re scratched to all hell, and there are a few deep gashes, but Sam did a good job cleaning them up, and, honestly, it could have been a lot worse. 

Dean opens his mouth and closes it, looks at Cas, really looks at him, and rests his thumb against the pulse point in Cas’ wrist, “I’m sorry,” the depth of his apology, his regret, evident and unmasked in his full voice. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Cas replies.

“I’m sorry for the part that was,” he persists because he is, truly. 

Cas’ eyes’ are wide and filled with some overwhelming emotion, they soften gently, and he half-smiles, “I know.”

Dean meets the stare for as long as he dares and then ducks his head and resumes his ministrations. Cas’ palms are finished. Bandages chase their way from his knuckles up to his elbows. 

Dean sits back, work done, but Cas, apparently has other plans. He reaches out and takes Dean’s hand, and the hunter is admittedly surprised, “What’re you—?”

“It’s your turn,” Cas says, “Let me. Please.”

It feels like his heart might beat its way out of his chest when Cas pulls his hand closer to his torso, to exam the abrasions, studying each one. Dean can feel the radiant heat of Cas’ bare chest caressing his skin, wanting to ignite. He swallows hard. 

Cas takes the medicated ointment and gently dabs it onto Dean’s scrapes. His fingers, long and graceful, smooth it into the ridges, the cracks and bruises, caressing the old scars and the new hurts, ghosting over callouses, and there is something in the tenderness of that touch that makes tears stand in Dean’s eyes and his throat burn. 

Cas wraps the gauze around Dean’s knuckles, slowly and carefully, and when he’s repeated the motion on both of them, he takes his hands between both of his and he looks at Dean, firmly and gently. 

“I am sorry,” earnest and honest and true. There is sorrow in his eyes, regret, and something warmer, something that Dean doesn’t recognize, but makes his voice catch. 

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry for the part that was.” He repeats Dean’s earlier sentiment, and that’s when Dean understands, even more than he did this morning or last night; they’re both going to take the blame and feel guilty, maybe Cas feels like he chased Dean away and maybe Dean feels like he hurt Cas, too, but they can’t do this without understand how they impact one another. They both feel like shit, blaming themselves for things beyond their control…but hiding and running from that, it only makes the hurt worse. They can’t do that anymore. He won’t let that happen again, not if he can help it. 

Cas waits for the realization to sink in, and then nods once, squeezing Dean’s fingers, releasing them, and sitting back. Cool air rushes into the space he leaves behind, and Dean immediately misses the warmth of Cas’ skin. 

“How’re you so fucking smart?”

Cas breathes a laugh, “Millenia of observation,” he allows deadpan.

Dean smirks and sits back, close but not close enough. This is getting out of hand really fucking fast. 

It’s quiet, save for their breathing, the rustling of leaves in the wind, the beginning of cricket song. Sam is probably reading downstairs, he’ll likely fall asleep on the sofa with a book for a pillow—instead of, you know, actual pillows that he handpicked for their ‘warm accents’. 

The quiet and the intimacy, the darkness, the closed door, and sloping roof, the unmistakable tenderness of what had just transpired; it invites complicity and confidence, like it’s just the two of them in the world, and that’s all that matters. It should scare Dean more than it does right now, should send him running for the hills, hell it already has, but that impulse doesn’t come. He’s oddly content and completely revved up and it’s perhaps that combination that lets him ask what he does. 

“Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you mean this morning?”

“You might have to be more specific.”

“When you said that you ‘couldn’t see’ me?”

Cas frowns, not at Dean, but at the question and he takes a deep breath, hesitates only marginally before he answers, “I used to be able to see you differently.”

“I got that, thanks, Cpt. Obvious, different how?”

Cas looks like Dean might not like what he’s about to say, “Before I fell, I could perceive your soul.” 

Dean’s brows rise and he shakes his head, “My soul?”

Cas nods, “Yes.”

“That’s kinda personal, Cas.” 

“It’s very personal.” Dean barely contains an annoyed eye roll.

“Were you ever gonna mention that?”

“The ability or my present lack of it?”

“Either, both?” Is Cas being difficult on purpose? Does Dean care?

Castiel grins at Dean’s persistence, but seems generally unruffled, in fact, if anything, more settled by Dean’s bluster; “Angels, as beings, have more in common with souls than with flesh, that’s part of the reason that this transition has been so difficult. My true form could interact with your soul; that’s how I pulled you from hell. It is ‘personal,’ as you say, but it is also a ‘worldview.’”

He looks suddenly shifty while Dean processes this information. He should have known that Cas could literally see his soul, he looked at him like he could often enough. He wants to ask what the hell it looked like, but he’s afraid of the answer he’d get; black and burnt and diseased probably. He feels nauseous at the idea of Cas seeing that twisted thing from hell, the real him, every time he looked upon his face. Dean knows that he can get by on a smile as a human. That he can charm and wink and have people swooning and eating out of the palm of his hand. He knows that’s a show. The real him, the parts that his pretty face covers, would have any sane creature running in the other direction, terrified, scarred. He feels like he might be sick at the fact that Cas had seen that; could always see that. Maybe Cas is lucky that he doesn’t have to look at that mutilated, misshapen thing all the time anymore. Maybe Dean, vain creature that he is, should be grateful that Cas has gone angel blind. Another part, thinks of Cas’ real self the self that was beyond flesh and bone and blood and skin, the self that was bright white light that would burn out your damn eyes, and he wonders at the fact that that Cas had once held him and carried him from hell, that he had interacted with the real Cas, a version of Cas that he’ll never see or understand fully, a version of Cas that’s gone forever, that Cas mourns, and he wishes he could remember that, but doesn’t at the same time. 

Cas interrupts this reverie; “I miss seeing your soul,” he admits, like he’s been caught at something forbidden, hand in the proverbial cookie jar. 

“Why?” Dean can’t keep the surprise and, almost disgust from his voice, who would want to see the mangled, damaged, hideous thing that he was and is.

Cas, for his part, looks shocked, “You have a beautiful soul, Dean.”

Which, yeah, Dean is floored, “You’re kidding, right?”

“I would not joke about this,” Cas is dead serious, “Your soul is brilliant and bright, and, yes, beautiful.”

“Cas,” Dean chides, with his hand rubbing the back of his neck and a blush creeping up his cheeks, thankfully hidden in the darkness, “You can’t just say that to someone.”

“I’m not ‘just saying that to someone’,” Cas rolls his eyes, and then fixes Dean with a steady stare, “I am saying it to you because it is true.”

“Huh,” he doesn’t know what to say to that. 

Cas shakes his head, “You doubt your worth, Dean,” he makes it sound like that is the single most frustrating thing he’s ever encountered, “far, far too much, but you are truly a beautiful creature.”

“All right, you really need to start using a different adjective.”

“Like what?”

“Manly, macho, kickass,” he suggests.

Cas sighs in exasperation, “Souls do not have genders, but I suppose ‘kickass’ could suffice, though it greatly underestimates the innate glory that is manifest in your soul.”

Dean just shakes his head. 

“I had missed seeing it, seeing you,” Cas admits, softly now, “flesh is harder to read. More difficult to understand. It’s a mask.”

“That sucks,” having to learn a new set of senses at like a billion years old must blow. 

“It does,” Cas agrees.

“Missed? You don’t anymore.”

Cas smiles, “I just learned a different way to see it.”

Dean frowns.

“Your soul is you, Dean, it’s who you are. I would recognize it anywhere,” Cas looks right into Dean’s eyes, his hand coming to hover by Dean’s cheek. Dean can’t look away, he’s captured, captivated, “It shines through, I was just too distracted to notice.”

Cas gazes at him like he’s precious, like he’s the only thing in the universe that means anything, like he hung the moon and the stars, and Dean wants. He wants to run and hide from it, he wants Cas to look at him like that forever and never stop for a second, he wants to lean forward those last few inches and capture Cas’ mouth with his own. He wants to touch Cas’ skin, not to heal it, but to own it, to claim it, to taste and touch and feel and be. He wants Cas and that want overwhelms him, here in Cas’ room, on a summer night, in the dark, with this man who was once an angel and who has seen him, has seen down to his soul, and found it beautiful despite the tarnish, and, he’s not worthy, Dean knows he’s not, but by god does he want to be; he wants to earn that look.

Hell, what am I doing? 

Dean sighs, swallows past the lump in his throat, tries to ignore the fire racing across his skin, the heat in his stomach, the hardness in his jeans, the burning in his eyes, the itch and ache in his palms.

“Thanks, Cas,” his voice breaks, he clears his throat, “I, ah, I think I should probably head to bed, kinda wiped out.”

Cas drops his hand, frowns at the change of subject, but covers it well; he’s learning emotional skills from the Winchesters, that is so not good. “All right. Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah, you too,” he holds up his hand, “You did a good job.”

Cas ducks his head slightly at the compliment, “Good night.”

“Night,” Dean closes the door behind him, crosses the hall, thanks god that he doesn’t run into Sam, and falls onto his own bed. It’s cold and empty and he rubs his hands over his eyes, wondering why a few feet seems so far from Cas, and how the hell he could have let this happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so sorry this is so fucking long. Holy crap, things got out of hand. I thought about breaking it up into multiple chapters, but, honestly, I couldn’t bear to and I hope that’s cool with all of you. Also, I hope Dean’s emotionally stunted word vomit wasn’t *too* out of character for him. 
> 
> The next chapter is…different. It’s a Cas POV chapter (yay, for those of you that enjoy them!), but it’s more of an interlude between the plot to get some Cas perspective. I’m a little nervous about it? But I also really like it? 
> 
> ANYWAY thank you all so much for reading and reviewing and following this story! I swear, you guys are awesome. I would love to hear what you think of this update. Hugs.


	12. Dream On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes dark images, angst, mentions of suicide, illness, violence, and some sex, not necessarily in that order. More notes at the end.

Castiel dreams—of a dock. He sits at the very edge, bare feet dangling in the clear green water; small silver fish dart around his toes. He tips his face towards the sun and sighs in contentment, fanning his wings wide to catch the rays. The light refracts into a multitude of colors, prisms of radiant energy, reflected and reflecting. Kaleidoscopic patters of luminosity and life cascade over the water and the sky. He is infinitely and intricately connected with the universe.

Castiel is completely at peace here—sensing the distant murmurs of his siblings, feeling tangentially connected to the Host, to the earth, to the cosmos. Then, suddenly, he becomes aware of a presence much closer. He blinks his eyes open in surprise and turns back to the shoreline where a child is running towards him. Her tousled dark hair and white tunic flap in the breeze, sandals slapping against the dock; she smiles, green eyes luminescent as she careens towards him. What draws Castiel's attention most is the girl's resplendent grace, vibrant and glowing—manifest in wings that catch the air, flapping and fanning in excitement as she runs.

Castiel's wings are made of fire and ice and fury and purpose. They are beyond human comprehension, an expression of the divine. Yet grace has a signature, for not all angels appear the same. Anna's grace was the burnished heat of a blazing fire; warm and consuming, passion and wrath and earnestness; Uriel's the force of a winter wind; icy, biting, and sharp, directed in its path and intent on its purpose. Castiel's grace or his wings have been described as something akin to a storm at sea, tossing waves and skies in green and purple, thunder and lightning and a humbling sense of awe at the complexity of the universe. This child's grace, her wings, is bright, dappled summer sunlight, streaming through leaves; gold and green; light and shade, the combination of earth and sky, rooting and reaching.

Her grace reaches for Castiel, even as she sprints, just as her arms do—and, without conscious effort, Castiel is on his feet scooping this bundle of life and energy into his arms. Her arms clasp around his neck, her legs wrap around his waist, and her wings, her glorious wings, press against his chest and further, holding fast to his true form. Castiel embraces her, holds her in a human hug, even as his wings envelop her completely, gently brushing against hers. The caress is pure and unadulterated love—the sensation steals the very air form his chest as it ripples through him, rocking him to his very core—overwhelming in its effortlessness.

She nuzzles into his shoulder and then pulls back enough that he can see a missing tooth in her grin and a spark of familiar mischief in her twinkling eyes.

"Pãe," she says, "Vamos."

He sets her down and she takes his hand, leading him along with a skip to her step—chattering in a steady stream, in English, Enochian, Italian, Swedish, and Swahili—wings flaring and fanning as she speaks. Castiel can't help but brush his wings against hers, affection in every touch. The contact is sweet, and he can sense her joyous excitement. When he traces a finger against one of her secondary feathers, made of pure sunlight, she squirms and giggles as if ticklish, and Castiel smiles—his own elation radiating through this child's grace and back in a feedback loop of happiness.

Her hand is warm in his as she leads him up wooded path to a house that Castiel knows well, with a figure waiting on the porch that he knows even better.

Dean grins bright and unaffected when he catches sight of them.

"What took you so long?" He shoots Castiel a wink as he kneels down to accept an exuberant hug from the girl, who has relinquished Cas and turned to Dean with a cry of "Daddy." The warmth that he loses at the contact blooms anew in his chest when he watches the two interact.

"Hey, baby," Dean kisses the top of her head. Castiel sees her wings wrap tight to Dean, and the unfettered affection shining in her grace. Dean's soul glows with the same sentiment—it is the gleam that his soul takes on when he embraces or speaks of Sam, but ever stronger here, multiplied infinitesimally—The resemblance between Dean's soul and the girl's grace is uncanny, as stark at their identical smiles, and it is that moment that Castiel realizes (or remembers?) that this child is their child—his and Dean's, and he is flummoxed by the awareness.

"Why don't you go and see if your sister's up, squirt?" He suggests, placing the girl on the ground and ruffling her hair playfully. She races inside, and Dean watches her for a moment, soft smile playing across his mouth, before turning to Castiel with a look that renders the angel completely speechless.

Dean comes closer, invading Castiel's personal space in a way that would have been considered extremely prohibitive in the past, but must no longer fall into that category, because the movement has the ease of comfort and familiarity. He rests one hand on Castiel's hip, while the other cradles his jaw, and, with a small smile that is for Castiel alone, Dean leans forward and presses their lips together.

It is brief and gentle, the barest touch of their mouths, but the love that radiates between them—history, devotion, possessiveness, pride, trust—the feelings spiral out of Dean's soul in a wave that makes Castiel's grace flare like a supernova.

Dean must feel that sensation on some level because he gins into Castiel's mouth and nips softly at his lower lip before pulling back and resting his forehead against Castiel's—I love you, it seems to profess.

Castiel hears their daughter call them, and Dean rolls his eyes as if to say, "Duty calls," before winking with the promise of later. He turns towards her voice and jogs up the front steps of the house.

"C'mon, Cas," he beckons.

Castiel gladly moves to follow—eager to rejoin his mate, for surely Dean is nothing else (how could Castiel have ever forgotten such a thing?), and their children, these beautiful fledglings, but, even as he steps towards the house, the house seems to step backward, become more distant.

"Dean," Castiel calls.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean chides, voice muffled by the walls.

Castiel begins to feel something akin to panic. He needs to reach his family—he must—they aren't too far. He can hear them—the young girl speaking excitedly, Dean laughing, an infant's gurgling cry, Dean's soothing hum, a younger voice singing in accompaniment, a baby's respondent giggle,—surely they must be close. But the house is dissolving—he can feel the warmth of soul and grace dim, growing fainter.

"Dean!" he shouts, urgently, desperately, but there is no reply. Castiel is lost and alone in consuming darkness.

"Dean!" Castiel wakes, dazed and disoriented, with a feeling of desolation in his chest, an empty, aching wound. He puts his hand against his rapidly beating heart from which the sensation seems to originate.

Dean, the real Dean, is hovering close by, hand ghosting across Cas' forehead, no doubt roused from fitful slumber by Castiel's cries.

"Cas?" he says, and Castiel gets the impression that he's been invoking his name for quite some time, in an attempt to gain recognition and awareness.

"Dean?" Castiel squints at his form in the darkness, shying away from his touch, though he wants, more than anything else, to lean into it.

"You were shouting," he says by way of explanation, trying to hide something—disappointment, frustration—as he gives Castiel the space that he needs but doesn't want. Why must this all be so confusing?

There are tears on Castiel's face, which he does not realize until Dean hands him a cloth with which to wipe them away. For all the world, Dean looks as if he'd like nothing more than to do it for him, but he struggles to maintain his distance and composure, hands fisted and arms crossed.

With Dena sitting so close, but still too far, the memory of his touch, the brush of lips to lips, of soul to grace haunts Castiel. Sensations that he will never know in the waking world—along with the healing joy of a child's love—their child's. Castiel should not want this, has no right to want this, hates the human proclivity for longing for the unattainable, a consuming and overwhelming desire for something unreachable that he did not even know he possessed.

He does not tell Dean what he dreamt of, but he recognizes the feeling in his chest as bereavement, nostalgia, saudade—an ache for something lost that never was and never can be. He curses the torment of his condition, curses his own mind for seeking to undo him, and he does not sleep again that night, preoccupied by impossibilities, curled into himself and away from Dean in the darkness.

Castiel dreams—of death. Of Dean's of Sam's; of Gabriel's and Bobby's; of Anna's and Uriel's. He dreams of all the deaths that he's witnessed while stationed on Earth. Sometimes he is the observer in these dreams, but sometimes, instead, he is the one dying…

He is a woman fleeing the ash raining over Pompeii, tripping and falling, even as the volcanic heat clogs his lungs and incinerates his body. He is a young soldier on the field of Waterloo, bayonet lodged in his ribs, the young Englishmen he had slain, lies face down in the mud beside him, choking on blood, while Castiel wishes for oblivion, fingers clutching his spilled guts weakly. He dies of dysentery on a slave ship in the Atlantic passage, rot, and feces and death thick in his nose—wails of despair on his lips and in his ears. He is a small child, clinging to his mother's dress weakly as he struggles to breathe; pneumonia claims him as her tears fall on his face. He dies of AIDS, ostracized from society, abandoned by his partner, in pain in a hospital room, utterly alone. He dies in car accident, scraped and raw, his sister in the passenger seat, begging him to hold on just a little longer; the ambulance is on its way, she is crying, and Castiel feels such regret for leaving her. He dies in battles, his brothers in arms by his side. He dies in wars, raped and abandoned. He is struck by lightning, and dies of dehydration in a ship wreck. Castiel dies in every way imaginable.

He had wondered when he fell how it was that a human brain would process all that he had witnessed, all that he had seen, and he thinks, every time he recovers from these nightmares that this is how. His mind reconciles angelic memories with human perception and the result is agonizing; draining, scarring. It leaves him wrecked, sobbing, aching, and regretful for his own lack of intercession.

Castiel overhears Sam and Dean arguing about possible medications to help him get through the night because he is exhausted and so are they. But he rejects that plan. He does not want to dull this pain. He can't. Sam agrees somewhat begrudgingly. Dean jerks his chin sharply with something like sorrow and relief in his eyes.

Castiel dreams—of hell. The Righteous Man awaits him. Castiel has fought legions of the damned, has lost brothers and sisters in their siege of this accursed and unholy place.

Castiel has sustained injuries, though thankfully none are fatal, and their ache is dull in the face of his anticipation, the truth of his purpose. For the task has fallen to him, amongst all the angels of the Host, to save this soul from perdition, and here he is at last, in the very bowels of the inferno, his mission almost completed.

The cavern walls gleam dark and wet. The stench of blood and decay rests cloyingly in the air. The clash of blades; the heavenly host and the demons of hell locked in combat, echoes behind him as he makes his way forward. He's so close.

He can hear the screams of a soul in agony, and Castiel becomes aware, with vicious certainty who wields the blade. He rounds the corner…

Castiel knows, on some level, how this story plays out. He's done it before. He will enter the chamber and the blackness that covers the Righteous Man will cringe away from Castiel's holy grace. The brilliant light of Dean's soul will reach towards the angel, seeking warmth and shelter, forgiveness and benediction. His implement of torture will drop from his bloodied fingers and he will fall to his knees before Castiel's divinity—in fear and supplication. Castiel will take Dean's soul, battered, and beaten, but Dean once again, into his grace, will hold him tightly, lovingly, in the very heart of himself, and cleanse him with healing light, wiping away the tarnish of hell to allow his natural glory to shine free. Sheltering him thusly, cradling him within a protective luminosity, Castiel will take him from the cursed place, onwards to his deliverance, to a body that Castiel will remake and a destiny long foretold. Castiel will do this, even as Dean's soul clings to Castiel, and Castiel's grace wraps him close with something akin to awe and affection.

He knows how this story goes because he has lived it, but…that is not what happens…

Castiel enters the chamber, and Dean turns, but…this is not Dean. There is a demented grin plastered on his face, the leer of a soul twisted almost beyond recognition. His eyes flash black, dangerous, greedy, devoid of all kindness or feeling, filled instead with cruelty and eager at prospect of inflicting pain.

"Dean," Castiel proclaims, voice echoing dully in the cavern.

"Well, well," Dean hisses; tone sharper than Castiel has ever heard it, malicious, cold, and slightly deranged. Tilting his head wickedly to the side, he abandons the still screaming soul, weeping pitifully on the rack, ignoring its pain in the pursuit of fresh amusement and torment.

"Little birdy fell from the sky," he cants in a macabre parody of a voice that has soothed Castiel's aches and fears. Now that voice is keen with dark expectancy, knife flashing between his clawed, gory fingers, anticipation to slice and dice and maim.

Castiel is suddenly afraid. He backs away from the feral creature before him, the demonic eyes bright and void; his stomach roils in protest at the wrongness of this image.

"Poor little birdy," Dean hums, circling him predatorily, intent on the kill, but, first, before death, Castiel will know pain, that much is certain; he will know pain and fear and agony; he will beg for death before it is through, and Dean will laugh and refuse him, and begin all over again, until Castiel goes mad with it. Castiel realizes beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is disconnected from the Host, cut off from Heaven—he is alone save for Dean, a Dean who is not Dean, not Castiel's Dean.

"You've fallen far from the nest, little birdy," Dean leers; he has Castiel backed into a corner. It's as if he can smell fear and rejoices in the aroma; the weeping woman moans piteously behind them. Dean twists a hand, and she screams and then chokes on her own blood, gagging and raw; Dean sneers all the more brightly; he has ripped out her tongue; Castiel's skin erupts in chills that sweep through him, his hair stands on end, "and now you can't fly."

"Dean," Castiel's voice trembles, catching on the bile rising in his throat. Dean circles closer and closer, licking his lips with a forked tongue, fire, and blood reflecting in obsidian eyes and the blade he carries.

He chuckles darkly, spitefully, and sobers with a smile cold as ice, "Dean's gone, little birdy," he mocks, "Long gone…You came too late. It's just you and me, now," he is in Castiel's personal space, languid as a snake about to strike. Castiel is tense and withholding, this is not as it should be. Dean strokes Castiel's face gently with one hand, but the gesture is devoid of affection, made only to confuse and torture Castiel, "Wanna play, little birdy?"

Dean would never hurt him, he thinks even as he struggles to get away, but this creature is not Dean. Dean is lost as the blackness swallows what's left of his soul.

As Dean makes his first cut, Castiel screams in anguish, and Dean laughs in triumphant pleasure

He wakes screaming, grasping his sheets tightly, as if to rend them in two. Dean and Sam come barging into his room not a moment later and Castiel recoils in nascent terror from Dean, pressing his back to the wall and hissing in agony. Dean looks as wounded as Castiel feels. Sam takes immediate stock of the situation and forces Dean out of the room amid voracious protests. They have a hushed argument that Castiel is not meant to hear but is privy to none the less.

"Go back to bed."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Dean…"

"Fuck you if you think I'm gonna ditch him."

Sighs. "Then go downstairs and wait for us there. Make some tea or something."

"I'm not fucking Mary Poppins, Sam!"

"No, but Cas is freaked out and you're making him more freaked out, so give us a minute or two for him to calm down."

Dean glares fiercely at his brother, his eyes thankfully a human green; he shoots a more compassionate almost longing look at Castiel before reluctantly leaving.

It is Sam who sits with him that night. And, strangely, it is Sam in whom Castiel confides his nightmare. It is Sam who listens kindly and carefully, who reassures him that, however much it might not feel like it, it was just a dream. Nightmares are meant to feel tangible, they are meant to prey on our deepest fears, but they are not real. Castiel thinks this might be what it is like to have a true brother.

When they amble down the stairs some minutes later, Castiel clutching the railing for support, Dean is waiting in the grey pre-dawn light with mugs of tea for all three of them and worry writ large on his face.

His soul shines in the concern on his face and the urgency of his fingers, the leg that jogs impatiently where he sits, and Castiel is reassured, relieved. He wants to wrap Dean in his arms and bury his face against his neck and just breathe there; the urge is overwhelming and all consuming, but he solemnly accepts his tea instead.

"Everything okay?" Dean's voice is raw, his eyes wide with empathy and concern.

"Yes," Castiel replies.

"Good, tea," Sam remarks.

"Shut up."

Castiel dreams—most often of falling. He relives his fall in brutal detail. Wings incinerating, grace ripping through newly made flesh. A moment of pure creation and cataclysmic destruction with Castiel—everything he is, everything he was, everything he is becoming—at the epicenter of the blast.

It is pain beyond knowing and Castiel, in between angel and human, has no voice to scream, though he tries, oh, how he tries. That which has always been Castiel, his true self, it burns the flesh meant to encase his new soul. He is destroying himself, transforming, birth and death and infinite agonies ricocheting through him.

The setting of this dream varies, but the pain doesn't. More often than not, he is flying, peaceful and serene, when he remembers his fall, and it is recreated anew. A perilous plummet from the heavens, a death-defying distance to the earth, he careens downward even as he burns. He often hears Dean or Sam calling for him; or, rather, knowing in the heart of him that they need his help, that he must save them, but he cannot even save himself, and he realizes that he will never reach them in time. It is his last rational thought before he is consumed with pain.

His wings—the manifestation of his grace, even when taking a vessel—these are what hurt the most. The memory and rightness of them, and then the horrible wrongness as they are cleaved from him, aflame and igniting his skin, his soul, even as he plunges.

The pain does not leave when he wakes, gasping for air, screaming until he is hoarse, and, on those nights, he does not shy from Dean, but, rather, reaches for him, grasping his arm enough to bruise, grounding himself. His back aches and phantasmagorical appendages burn and there is no way to sooth the physical and psychosomatic injuries. So Dean will brush his hand against Castiel's forehead and sing softly in the darkness until he is calm enough to breathe again. Until the memory fades softly to the background of his mind, delayed in its encompassing pursuit of his undoing. He watches Dean's repeated motion, listens to his voice crack over the words, slightly off key, but there is kindness in the gesture, affection, and Castiel allows it to lull him back to sleep.

Castiel dreams—of Bobby Singer's house. It is dark and eerily silent. He narrows his eyes at the gloom and the quiet—ominous, odd, for Bobby's home is always full of sound—the cadence of roughened voices, the incessant ringing of phones, the flipping of pages, the clang of metal tools, the revving of engines, and creaking of old wood. But in the darkness there is nothing and all is still.

A soft glow emanates from the study, and Castiel walks closer, following the source. He hesitates and then pushes open the doors. There are candles perched precariously on stacks of books, tomes of lore. Castiel blinks at them in consternation.

A shadowy figure sits at the desk, hunched over, breathing in great shaky gasps.

"Hello?" Castiel calls.

The figure looks up, eyes hooded, defeated, gleaming dully in the scant light. There are bruises and scrapes across his face; lank hair falls over his forehead and frames gaunt emaciated cheeks, but even so Castiel recognizes him.

"Sam?" Castiel is appalled, agape, "What happened?"

Sam sighs, heavily, the saddest mockery of a smile upon his mouth, at that small motion, his lips crack and begin to bleed, "Life," he says, his voice utterly beaten, resigned, "Death."

Castiel is aware (in the way that you are in dreams of two contradictory, even paradoxical, things existing simultaneously and accepting them, though in the waking world you would be puzzled but such a juxtaposition) that he is looking at Sam's soul even as he looks at Sam's physical self; that the two things are the same and inseparable. Sam flickers, the barest life left in him, wounded beyond repair. His soul is scarred; the wounds weeping, infected, angry and inflamed; rotting, Sam whose soul has always been so bright.

"Sam let me help you," Castiel reaches for the healing energy of his grace, to find it absent. He has fallen, "No," he struggles, "No, I must help you." He is strongly aware of the fact that the fate that has befallen Sam is entirely his fault and responsibility.

Sam shakes his head wearily, "You can't," he replies, sadness and resignation in his expression and his voice.

"No, I have to," Castiel insists, still struggling to find something that he can use to heal Sam's mangled soul.

Sam rises and limps closer to Castiel, one leg dragging uselessly, he offers him a knife, hilt held outwards, "You can help me," he replies, "by ending it."

"No," utter refusal, he cannot kill Sam Winchester. He won't.

"You have to, Cas, I'm dead already."

"We'll find a way to save you," Castiel promises.

Sam laughs the sound is cracked from disuse, broken beyond repair; such sorrow in it. Tears stand in his eyes, "There is no we, Castiel. Dean is gone. So is Bobby."

"No," Castiel refuses to believe what his gut knows to be true, viciously rebelling against the onslaught of pain in his heart.

"It's just you and me, Cas, and I'm too far gone," Sam insists, "You have to end it."

"Sam, I can't," Castiel pleads; he can't lose his brother, the only family left remaining to him, his only friend.

Sam inclines his head, hair falling over his eyes, further obscuring his features with shadows and shade, "It's okay, Cas," he whispers, "I understand."

Castiel has a moment of relief before Sam takes the knife and plunges it into his own chest.

"No!" Castiel screams, even as Sam tilts back his face in a fit of spiritual ecstasy as his soul burns, blazes, and Sam screams.

"NO!" Castiel bellows falling back from the force of the flames, shielding his eyes from the fire and lightening, the light of a dying star, as Sam is reduced to nothing.

Castiel wakes panting, tears leaking from his eyes. Dean is with him, and Castiel is so thankful because he thought that surely he was dead. He has a grip on Dean's t-shirt, and, as Dean tries to make head or tails of Castiel's jumbled words (they are not in English), he calls for Sam.

When the younger Winchester comes in, sleep tousled but wide eyed and alert, Castiel feels a wave of gratifying relief and, if he were standing, he's sure he would fall to his knees in sheer gratitude.

It takes a while to sort out what had upset him so much, when Sam is safely back in bed, Castiel whispers the dream to Dean, looking at his palms throughout his halting narration.

Dean places a consoling hand on Castiel's shoulder—the gesture makes Castiel shiver and spark—"I have those dreams, too," he confides, voice almost a whisper, "Not that exactly, but you, Sammy, my parents…the details change but the song remains the same, you know?"

He doesn't exactly.

"Maybe you don't," Dean half smiles, "Nightmares suck, but they're just dreams, Cas, they're not real. I know they feel like they are, but, this is real—" he squeezes Castiel's shoulder, catches his eye, "—I'm real. Sammy's okay; I'm okay; you're okay. Okay?"

"Is it customary to say 'okay' so much in the wake of a bad dream?" Castiel asks, and Dean replies with a grin, and a short laugh, just as he had hoped he would.

"I guess so," he sighs and sits back, scoots infinitesimally closer—never close enough—"You want me to stay?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll stay."

"Thank you, Dean."

"No problem."

They both sleep better like that.

Castiel dreams—of flesh. He is in a motel room; it is the latter days of the apocalypse. Castiel's power is reduced, but not gone. He is frustrated and forsaken and he is profoundly tired. He is waiting for Dean and Sam to return. Waiting but not patiently. Something unnamable is crawling up his chest, riddling his grace—anxiety—a voice provides for him—you're experiencing anxiety. He has no patience for determining how it came to pass that he is experiencing such a banal expression of human emotion.

Dean comes into the room on the heels of a spring storm; clothes wet, face drawn, covered liberally in mud and blood. He looks surprised to see Castiel, stopping in his tracks before shaking his head and proceeding to sit down across from the angel.

He shucks off his boots, "Fucking tsunami out there," he mutters, struggling with the laces.

Castiel doesn't reply.

"What're you doin' here, Cas?" He asks once he's removed his shoes (with a grunt) and socks (with a groan).

Castiel tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. What a foolish question? Why else would Castiel be in this transient human dwelling if not to see Dean?

Dean narrows his eyes right back.

Castiel rolls his. He is eternally unsure how it came to pass that the Righteous Man and his brother could be so intelligent and yet so oblivious.

"Waiting. For you." He replies seriously, as if there could be no other reason.

"Huh," Dean licks his lips. For some reason, Castiel's eyes are drawn to Dean's tongue; follow its movement before settling on the swell of Dean's mouth. His hair is damp, as is his face. There is more stubble lining his cheeks and chin than is his custom. There is a streak of blood across his forehead, not his own, so Dean had likely wiped sweat off of brow absentmindedly during the hunt.

Dean catches the direction of Castiel's stare and smirks, causing heat to coil low in Castiel's stomach. Odd.

"Where is Sam?" Castiel asks to distract himself from this strange reaction.

Dean considers Castiel with a slowly broadening grin, clearly catching on to something that Castiel is missing, "Getting smashed."

Castiel frowns, "Sam?"

"I hooked him up," Dean replies, proud. He intervened for Sam to enjoy an evening of frivolity and sexual intercourse with a suitable partner.

"Oh."

Castiel sits in silence, twiddling with the edge of his coat, unsure why he feels so uncomfortable. Dean watches Castiel for a moment more, and his gaze is penetrative, discerning, he cocks his head and Castiel, of all things, squirms under the scrutiny. Dean seems to arrive at some sort of decision because he smiles, slightly predatory and he gets to his feet.

"I guess it's just you and me, huh?" he asks, but Castiel knows that it's not a question. The phrase catches at something unreachable in his memory, but the tone is different, lilting, and husky.

He walks to his duffle and digs through the top layer, rooting for clothing. Castiel is distracted by the curve of Dean's spine, the shadows on his face, the swell of his hips and the strength of his legs. Castiel is distracted and the feeling grows, pulsating in his stomach spreading to his groin. His skin prickles and burns, too tight—arousal—again a voice supplies—you are aroused. Oh. Oh…Castiel averts his gaze, hunches his shoulders, and feels burning heat in his cheeks.

Dean stands again, shrugs out of his coat, and slowly unbuttons his flannel shirt. Much more slowly than he usually would. Castiel is preoccupied with the motion. Dean catches him watching and smirks, slow and broad. He waggles his eye brows. Castiel insides jump, his cock twitches.

"Like what you see, Cas?" Dean grins.

Castiel feels as though he's been caught at an indiscretion, but something stirs within him, he is an angel of heaven, a warrior of god; he shall not be shamed, "Yes."

Dean blinks, startled, but only for an instant, because then he smiles more broadly still, and his eyes gleam, "Good."

He walks closer to Castiel, and Castiel rises to meet him. He does not know how this should go, he has seen the myriad patterns of human copulation across time and space, but, this, this is different. This is Dean. This is he and Dean. Castiel's heart leaps in his borrowed chest; his grace ripples and resonates in anticipation. Be not afraid, Castiel.

Dean gets right up into Castiel's space, a dare on his lips, and a challenge in his stance, nervousness gleams in his soul as does want and need. Profound need. Castiel interprets it as an invitation, and he takes the final step into Dean's space, surprised by his own audacity, his own boldness, his own naked need, raw and burning. Need for Dean Winchester. How had he never noticed before?

Castiel crashes his mouth against Dean's, one hand reaching for the base of his neck, the other snaking under his shirt, against the chilled, rain damp skin, the muscles leap under his touch. And if Dean is startled, it lasts only a moment before he kisses back, guiding Castiel's mouth to a better fit, hand against his shoulder, and another on his low back, pulling him closer, slotting their hips together. Dean is hard against him and Castiel gasps. Dean chuckles, deep and throaty, sucks Castiel's lower lip between his teeth, and Castiel growls, primal, human. The strength that he uses to throw Dean down onto the bed is anything but. Dean looks up, propped on his elbows, expectant, hungry. Castiel removes Dean's shirt, fights the urge to rip it away. Kissing Dean's neck, his chest, damp with rain, salty with sweat. Dean sighs and groans, tilting his head back, exposing his throat for Castiel's tongue and teeth.

"Damn, Cas," he growls when Castiel moves lower, taking his nipple between his teeth, swirling his navel with his tongue, and kissing every inch of skin in between the two points, tracing a map that only he can follow. Hands ghost over Dean's ribs, his hip bones. His tattoo, his scars, the body that Castiel recreated; he fashioned these cells, he shaped this flesh, but he has never explored it in this way. Castiel hovers on the line between reverent and primitive, marking the expanse as his own.

Deans hips buck, his fingers rest on Castiel's hair, mussing it as his soul sparks and kindles.

"Hey," Dean's voice is rough, coarse, "Not that I don't, ah—" he gasps as Cas sucks a mark into his hipbone, "fuck, Cas,—don't appreciate the attention, but we're a little uneven here."

Castiel looks up, tilts his head. Dean's smile is bright, his eyes dark, so beautifully human, "C'mere," he chuckles, and Castiel goes.

They kneel before one another on the bed; Dean's gaze flickers to Castiel' lips and then to his eyes, staring straight at him. Castiel's grace leaps, his heart pounds, he takes a sharp breath, a fiery heat races across his skin. Dean gives him a smile like a hazy sunrise and he places a hand on Castiel's cheek, brushing a thumb against Castiel's lower lip, before he leans in and kisses Castiel more slowly than he had before and Castiel responds eagerly, tracing Dean's tongue with his own; slick and wet and warm. He tastes whiskey. Dean hums into him in encouragement and Castiel responds in kind.

Dean shoves off his trenchcoat, whips off his tie, and undoes the buttons of Castiel's shirt with dexterity that is somewhat amazing. Dean's hands are on his bare skin and the touch flashes across him, through him, heat, and tingling intensity over his skin, deep into his grace.

"I like—" Dean whispers, as he presses his mouth to Castiel's jaw, marking his neck with tongue and teeth, "—that no one—" he sucks at the pulse at the base of Castiel's throat, and Castiel tips his head back in something like ecstasy, "—has ever touched you like this."

Castiel's hand comes of its own volition to rest upon his mark on Dean's shoulder, the mark of grace and soul joined together, and Dean's whole body shivers, "No one," he declares, his human voice so much deeper than he's ever heard it, "will ever touch you as I have."

"No one," Dean agrees, solemnly.

When Castiel's wings flare from his back, Dean does not recoil; he beholds their glory in awe.

"Fucking beautiful, Cas," he declares, "Fucking awesome."

He runs a hesitant finger through the feathers made of light and energy, made of lighting and storm tossed seas, of grace and purpose and divinity, and Castiel's whole body arches into the touch, his grace teeters on the edge of explosion at the caress of Dean's hand, of the brush of his soul. Castiel's wings flare, and Dean, smirking, repeats the motion, until Castiel again places his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Holy fuck," Dean cries, he feels it two, the joining of soul and grace, the electricity of their physical and metaphysical forms, "Cas, fuck me."

Castiel pushes Dean back into the mattress, wings flared wide over the two of them, kissing and pressing. Castiel unbuttons Dean's jeans, and Dean lifts his hips so that Castiel can pull them away, until it is just Dean lying on the bed. Castiel losses his breath for a moment, forgets that he doesn't need it in the first place entirely.

"You are beautiful," he states.

Dean's blush spreads across his chest up his neck into his cheeks, his cock is hot, heavy and hard against his stomach, his hips twitching, "Jesus, Cas, you can't just say—"

But Castiel takes Dean in hand and cuts off the rest of his admonishment. He sets a rhythm, Dean moaning and breathy. Castiel whispers into his skin, endearments, encouragements, promises, in languages older than time. Dean's hips pump, he bites his lip, clutches Castiel's shoulder and the bed sheets, trying to keep from coming undone too soon. Castiel smiles at the sight; Dean disheveled, Dean falling apart in the most beautiful way.

Castiel places his hand over his handprint and whispers, "Dean," and the hunter gasps, spilling hot and wet over Castiel's hand. Castiel continues to pump his fist, working Dean through his orgasm, holding him as he whimpers and softens, Castiel's name on his lips the entire time.

Dean is sweaty and dazed, eyes hazy and awed; he lies back for a moment, chest heaving, as Castiel presses a kiss to his shoulder, marveling at how wondrous this is. Dean looks at Castiel as if he is the sun, "Holy shit, Cas," his voice is ragged, and he leans forward to catch Castiel mouth.

The arousal flares through Castiel again, and something akin to a whimper escapes his throat. He can feel Dean's smile. Castiel wants, and Castiel has never wanted, has never allowed himself to want, not like this, never like this (and he cannot even begin to marvel at the unprecedented ache through his body and his mind and his heart). Castiel wants Dean's hands on his body; he wants Dean's mouth on his skin, now. He wants Dean, feels that if he cannot have him, he will die, combust, burn away to nothing.

He hisses at the feel of Dean's teeth tugging on his earlobe, the scratch of his stubble against his abdomen, his throaty chuckles, and praises as the heat builds between them.

"Dean," Castiel pleads, prays, promises, "Dean."

"I gotcha, Castiel," Dean never calls him Castiel, and the sound of his full name on his lips sends a rocking wave through him, enough that he hits his head against the headboard.

Dean teases at the waist band of Castiel's pants, calloused fingertips rough against the skin of his hipbones and Castiel's muscles flex and jolt. His hips jerk upward. Friction, he needs friction, God, he needs.

Dean undoes Castiel's fly, strips him of his slacks and boxers, and Castiel is fully naked on his back, with Dean kneeling over him, "Jesus, Cas," he says admiration, wonder on his face.

Castiel's cock is flush against his stomach, leaking and hard.

"Dean," Castiel, angel of the lord, begs.

"Let me take care of you, Castiel," he growls.

"Dean, I—" Castiel begins but then loses all sense of everything because Dean's mouth is on his cock, hot and wet and Castiel is overwhelmed by the sensations. Dean looks up at him through lowered lashes, as he works his mouth over Castiel, his hands teasing at Castiel's balls. Castiel knows that if Dean could, he'd be smirking in triumph.

"Dean—" Castiel begs, and Dean releases his mouth, taking Cas in hand so that he can move to kiss him, the taste of Castiel on his tongue. Castiel is so close, he can feel it. God. Is this what it's like?

"It's a perk," Dean says as if reading his mind, twisting his hand in a way that makes Castiel's body jackknife off the bed, "God, Cas, I love you," Dean whispers into Castiel's neck.

"Dean, I—"

Castiel wakes, a lash of rain against his window and a distant crash in a stormy night, shaking him from his dream. He's hot and sweaty. His sheets and blankets have been flung wide and tangled. He's panting, the feel of Dean's mouth lingering over his skin—a phantom memory. Castiel is still hard, aching, leaking.

For a moment, in the darkness, with the pounding of rain against the window, Castiel hates everything. He recognizes the sensation as abhorrence. He hates his mind for teasing him. He hates himself for wanting Dean's hands and mouth and soul. He hates his body for its raw, naked need; not just food and water, not only sleep, now, this. He might cry with frustration. Feels the burning in his eyes that presages tears, hates that he is becoming acquainted with that sensation. He knows what he needs and he hates that he needs at all.

He has the presence of mind to be thankful that Dean isn't here to witness this, for, how could Castiel explain what he had been dreaming about? He also has the presence of mind to regret that Dean is not here as he was in Castiel's dream; to wish for Dean's hands and Dean's mouth and Dean's words. You don't have him, a voice whispers, and with that Castiel reaches his own hand down, pushes his pajamas out of the way, and takes himself in hand. He works himself and as he does so he imagines Dean's smirk, Dean's laugh. He remembers Dean falling apart under his fingers, Dean's palms against Castiel's wings. He thinks of sweat dampened skin, and a rain washed face, and eyes blown wide with lust. He imagines Dean's mouth against his jaw and his calloused thumb running over his slit and Castiel jerks upwards into his fist.

"Dean," he growls, low and fierce, an invocation, "Dean."

"Love you, Cas," he remembers, Dean's voice beckoning him onward, giving Castiel what he most wanted and with that Castiel comes, shuddering, hot and messy, wet ropes of come striping his belly and his chest. He works himself through his orgasm and there are tears of frustration in his eyes, while he lies there afterwards. The rain keeps on falling and Castiel breathes heavily and wonders why he was given the ability to want if only to be eternally frustrated and condemned by his own desires. It is a cruel fate. A fitting one, he supposes, for a rebellious angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> orry this is so late, everyone! Real life got in the way of writing for a week. This chapter is different, but I felt like it needed to happen, so, let's all together now, have a resounding, "OMG POOR CAS," moment.
> 
> A few notes: Castiel dreams of Dean dying, a lot. Like a hell of a lot. Not being able to save him is one of his greatest nightmares, but I did not write that here. The setting for the Sam nightmare was taken from the episode at the end of Season Six when Sam reclaimed his soul after his wall broke. I am going to be travelling for two weeks, so the next chapter will be posted probably by August 3 (the day after my b-day incidentally). The next chapter is so fucking fluffy that it's absolutely ridiculous, but you've earned it.
> 
> Finally, THANK YOU, for reading and reviewing and following this story. You are all amazing and I would absolutely love to hear what you think of this chapter. *hugs*


	13. Fresh as the Bright Blue Sky

They attempt the farmer’s market a week after The Epic Sharing of Feelings that occurred in the wake of Dean’s Boneheaded Cut-and-Run (Sam titled the latter). There are, in Dean’s opinion, way too many events requiring titles in their new domestic life. Especially since, these titles are usually down to Deans stupidity and therefore significantly less awesome than, for instance, The Badass Werewolf Hunt of 1996 or That Time that Sammy Beheaded Gordon Walker with is Bare-Fucking-Hands. One more catastrophic foray into civilian life and Dean is going to have to seriously reconsider his life choices. Which is why, on this particular outing, they are determined to be as prepared as possible. Seriously, they plot the entire thing as if they were conducting a siege of a top secret demon compound. This is Castiel’s second attempt to interact with the world, and Dean will be damned twice over if he lets this shit be a repeat of the Target Debacle. 

The farmer’s market is Cas’ idea. He makes his declaration of intent over breakfast one morning.

“I can’t spend my life hiding,” he notes.

Which is…incredibly mature and well adjusted...then again, Dean’s perspective on what qualifies as ‘mature’ or ‘well-adjusted’ might be slightly skewed. Let’s be real, if Cas decided that he wanted to take up residence in the attic and refuse all interaction with the outside world for the rest of his life, Dean would probably go with it (at least for a month or two). Sam (who is probably aware of the fact that he might be facing a united front of reclusion) looks incredibly pleased at this turn of events. He’s likely been planning some way to drag Cas out of the house against his will without getting the mother of all smiting glares. 

So they strategize, only this time, Cas also joins in the strategy session, and it’s both strange and familiar to have the three of them, heads bowed, working out a game plan, arguing and haggling and hatching out the least of all possible evils. It’s Team Free Will, back together again…just with a problem that is slightly less apocalyptic, though, as far as Dean is concerned, no less important. He made a promise to Sam, to himself, to Cas that he wouldn’t fuck this up, that he would do his best, and he is determined to make things go as smoothly as possible. 

“But,” Sam cautions, “don’t go into a downward spiral when things go to hell.”

That, Dean admits, will likely be the most difficult part. Neither refutes the presupposition that things will inevitably all go to hell. That’s just the formula of their lives

Cas is intrigued by the prospect of another outing, seems eager to ‘leave the nest’ (Dean laughs at his own pun) and interact with the world a little bit. He also confides to Dean that he’s nervous: “I don’t understand people.” 

“What’re you talking about? Sure you do.” 

Cas gives him a look that suggests his mental wiring is faulty, “I really do not.” 

“What about me and Sam? We’re people. You do fine with us.” 

“You’re different,” Cas states, and the echo of that phrase ripples between them for a moment. 

“Yeah, well, if you can handle our brand of crazy, you’ll be fine with the regular folk.” 

Cas remains dubious, “Experience speaks to the contrary.”

“You know what they say, Cas,” Dean replies, “If at first you don’t succeed...”

“Dean, I really don’t know what they say.”

“‘Try, try again,’” Dean supplies, “Don’t worry, we’re not gonna make the same mistakes. It’ll be different.”

And they do everything in their power to make it so. As near as they can tell, Castiel had been set off by a. the invasion of his personal space (which Dean will find ironic for the rest of forever) b. an overwhelming input of stimuli, and, finally, c. being in a strange environment, solo. 

They hash this out over the kitchen table. 

“So,” Sam reasons, totally in his element, “We won’t leave you alone. Not once.”

“Sammy’s right, Cas,” Dean affirms, “You’ve got yourself two highly trained personal body guards for the afternoon.”

Cas initially glares resentfully at his palms (warrior of god reduced to needing human body guards…it must be a sad come down) before he refocuses; his gaze softens and he half smiles at their statements, at the eagerness and earnestness of them, “I would never doubt you.”

Dean feels like he doesn’t deserve that, and Sam looks shifty, but they accept his comment without a vicious protest. 

“I have more doubt in myself,” Castiel supplies, “I don’t want to alarm or inconvenience you if I am unable to handle the situation.”

Sam fields that before Dean can even open his mouth, “One: you won’t alarm us; we’ve seen a lot and we know the signs, we’re prepared. Two: Cas, you’re not an inconvenience. We want to make this possible for you and we’re gonna do everything we can to make sure this goes smoothly, okay?”

Cas nods.

Dean jumps in, “Look, if we hit a worst case scenario here, we’ll just safe-word it.”

“‘Safe-word it’?” Castiel repeats.

“Yeah,” Dean affirms, “if you start to feel uncomfortable you just say the word and we’ll tap out ASAP. No questions, no fuss, we’ll get you out of there right away.”

“It’s like a secret code, Cas,” Sam supplies, glaring slightly at Dean, who had partially set him up to explain the phrase’s larger implications, which Sam, to Dean’s dismay, does not do. He does give his older brother bitch face #57: Sexual innuendos? Really? Very mature. Asshole. Dean preens a little as he smirks, and Castiel clearly recognizes that he’s missing something, but refuses to pursue; it’s as if he knows that it’s not worth the headache it would give him, especially now that he is susceptible to headaches. 

Instead, he frowns and considers their assurances. 

“We can handle this,” Sam promises, “you can handle this.” 

“We’ll be right there with you the whole time,” Dean confirms. 

“Okay,” Castiel agrees, shrugging in that stilted, awkward way of his. 

After that initial hurdle, the strategy session continues. They decide that they’ll go early in the morning. 

“We’ll only have to deal with old folks and toddlers,” Dean notes, “Not the hipster, poser, middle-aged lady crowd.”

Cas frowns speculatively, “What are hipsters and posers?”

“Douches,” Dean supplies.

“I see,” Cas is still frowning. 

Sam just rolls his eyes and sighs, “Stop turning him against people.”

Dean rears back, mock offended, “Cas is a big boy, he can make his own decisions, Sammy. Isn’t that right, Cas?”

Cas rolls his eyes in an almost perfect approximation of Sam’s expression, “I don’t think Sam was suggesting that I couldn’t. Can we continue? Please?”

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam nods to Dean with a tight ‘I told you so’ bitch face (those are so frequent that Dean doesn’t even bother attributing numbers to them).

“Fine, I see how it is.”

“Anyway,” Sam continues blithely, clicking vaguely at his laptop, “The market opens at 7:00; I figure we can head over at 7:30. It’s not like we’re not already awake anyway,” the last bit is a comment that was probably just throw away and said without any conscious thought, but everyone stills, especially Sam, who immediately backtracks, “I just meant that, um, we’ve been waking up early.”

“We know what you meant,” Dean glowers at his brother, who wilts slightly beneath his gaze. They are up early because Cas has nightmares almost every night, sometimes multiple times a night. His screams rouse everyone from sleep, and make it difficult to go back. It’s not like they haven’t built a life on four hours of shut-eye, and it isn’t like they don’t all have their own nightmares, but, fuck, Sam is supposed to be the fucking sensitive one. 

A muscle in Cas’ jaw jumps and he looks torn between extreme embarrassment and wrath. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam offers sheepishly.

Dean’s glare suggests that if Sam says something like that to Cas again Dean will break his nose and Sam seems to believe that’s fair. You are no longer allowed to lecture me on being compassionate, Dean conveys with his eyes. 

“It’s true, Sam, there’s nothing to forgive.”

They continue somewhat stiltedly after that. 

The safe word is ‘Christo,’ it’s been a pseudo safe word for a long time anyway. 

“Seriously, Cas,” if you feel weird about anything…”

“I understand.”

Sam seems inordinately pleased. Cas seems subdued and thoughtful. Dean is edgy and trying to cover it with good humor rather than maudlin sulking. He’s been extra careful about that lately. Cas needs the support, and the poor bastard is extra sensitive to Dean’s moods. Sam would have been a much better choice for the duckling-esque imprinting, but he’s not sure if Cas had a choice or if he would have made the wise decision if he’d been given the chance. He’s really not very logical where Dean is concerned, unfortunately.

Sam goes to work in the library; Cas will undoubtedly join him after he’s done picking absently at the fruit on his plate. 

“Penny for your thoughts, Cas?”

Cas sighs, “What?”

Dean rolls his eyes torn between exasperation and burgeoning fondness, “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Cas shifts slightly, prods a piece of melon quite sharply with a fork. 

“I can’t help but feel that this is a mistake.”

“The field trip tomorrow?”

He nods, sporting one hell of a constipated expression. Somehow it makes him look young all of a sudden. 

“Hey,” Dean offers, “we don’t have to go if you don’t want to. We can send Sam to pick us up some more of that cobbler and whatever green shit he’s into—,” the tiniest smile creeps up the edge of Cas’ mouth, so Dean continues, “—and you and me will hang out here. It’s not a big deal.”

“It feels like a ‘big deal,’” Cas ducks his head slightly, as if to hide his face, “Perhaps I was precipitous in my suggestion.”

“Precipitous?”

“Hasty.”

“Maybe it’s like ripping off a band-aid?” Dean suggests, and Cas grimaces, “It hurts at the beginning but then it wears off, you just gotta tear it. No hesitation.” 

“That is not a pleasant experience, Dean.”

“Dude, I know,” he sighs, “Look, I’m gonna level with you here; this has to be your choice. You have a choice, and this one? It’s not heaven or hell or end of the world. And I’ve got your back no matter what.”

Cas scrunches his mouth and tilts his head, “Life is filled with choices.”

“Yeah, ain’t it great?” Dean grins wolfishly.

“It’s a bit overwhelming,” Cas admits with a rueful, dazed shake of the head.

Dean chuckles, “Understatement. Taking orders is a cop-out; choices are hard, but what the hell would we have without that?” Besides wings. 

Cas considers this carefully, so carefully, in fact, that he turns extremely contemplative for the rest of the day, and Dean worries that he did something extremely wrong. He becomes so concerned that he voices his anxiety to Sam in a moment of supreme desperation, and Sam looks at him like he’s grown a second head and then like he’s too cute for words, which does not improve Dean’s nerves. 

“Shut up,” he barks as he stalks away. 

Cas has been working with Sam on the library, organizing, translating, and compiling lore. Most of the information is stuff that Cas already knows, but each new discovery sets Sam to skipping. 

If he says “So get this!” one more time, so help him, Dean is going to throw him out of the window. Bobby is torn between annoyance and rapturous longing. He’s dying to get his hands on the books more and more every time Sam calls him half singing his latest finding. 

Cas spends the day holed up in the library and goes to bed early with a stack of books. He wakes up around three screaming. Sam sleeps through it, and Dean is careful not to wake him when he jumps out of bed and hurries across the hall, shutting the door of Cas’ room behind him. It takes him about ten minutes to get Cas to wake up and another ten for Cas to recognize Dean. He stares at Dean through teary eyes, like it’s a miracle that he’s there—as if Dean would be anywhere else. Dean’s never sure if it’s okay to touch Cas or not—sometimes the angel recoils so hard that he hurts himself, sometimes he clings to Dean like he’s the only thing that’s real—so Dean follows Cas’ lead. Tonight, Dean’s not sure what the hell the nightmare had been about, but it causes Cas to close his hand tight on Dean’s shoulder like he’s afraid that someone will try to rip him away. Maybe it’s selfish of him, but Dean is thankful that it’s one of the nights where closeness is allowed. He holds onto Cas’ wrist and catches his panicked eyes. 

“It’s all right, man,” he whispers, “I’m right here.”

Cas nods, breathes raggedly, and wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand, like a little kid. Rising tenderness threatens to engulf Dean. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Cas’ voice is broken, raw.

“Okay.”

“Sorry, I woke you.”

“You don’t hafta apologize for that, Cas. I don’t need much sleep anyway.”

Cas nods, and Dean knows he wishes that he didn’t have to sleep period. 

They sit together for a while. Cas closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. Dean rises to leave, but Cas reaches out, still with his eyes closed, and locks Dean’s wrist in a death grip. 

“Stay,” he whispers, half-asleep, almost pleading—that’s the only way that Cas would ask for anything, and it stops Dean in his tracks, “please.”

“All right,” Dean says, throat tight. Stay. Cas asking him to stay, “Pass me a pillow.”

Cas smiles, almost, his mouth twitches at least, and he does as he’s told.

“And don’t hog the covers.”

“Mmmm.”

Dean rolls his eyes, grins warmly at Cas, and, knowing he shouldn’t, moves as close as he can. Hesitates the barest second and then runs a hand over Cas’ hair; Cas’ mouth tilts upwards at the corners in response, “Get some sleep, angel.”

Dean settles back and closes his eyes. 

He wakes at six, Cas’ head leaning on his shoulder and Dean’s cheek pressed against his hair. He’s completely relaxed for a minute, just inhaling the scent of Cas, and feeling him breathing, but then he snaps to attention and realizes that Cas is twitching slightly, tensing. Dean shakes him gently, and Cas nearly breaks his nose. Thankfully, Dean knows to duck. 

Cas looks harrowed and embarrassed, but Dean must have woken him just as the nightmare started because he doesn’t seem haunted, merely disoriented. 

They decide there’s not much point in going back to sleep after that (though part of Dean wants nothing more than to curl around Cas completely and shield him from the bad dreams and the bad thoughts and the pain). That might be why he forces himself to get up. The temptation to stay is too strong. Too frightening. He goes down to start breakfast while Cas brushes his teeth. 

Sam staggers down the stairs with a severe case of bedhead soon after. 

“You chargin’ rent?” Dean asks as he scrambles eggs.

“What?”

“For the birds building a nest on your head; prime real-estate there, you could probably make a buck.”

“You’re such a dick,” Sam grumbles. 

Dean chuckles, “You know you love me, Sammy.”

Cas makes a beeline to the stove and takes over coffee duty. No one is going to deny that he makes the best brew. He’s got all those tricks he picked up watching humanity for, well, forever. Why he can instantaneously become a coffee guru but struggles with tying his shoes will continue to be a mystery. Regardless, Dean suspects that Sam will start building a shrine to Castiel in the corner of the kitchen any day now because of his skills with caffeine. The look his baby brother is giving Cas right now is downright rapturous.

Sam pours orange juice, makes toast. Dean serves up scrambled eggs, and Cas carefully places mugs of coffee before everyone. Cas looks inherently suspicious of his breakfast, like it’s harboring malicious intent. 

“Dude, the eggs are not gonna hurt you,” Dean says, digging into his meal. 

Cas crinkles his nose in consternation, and Sam spreads jam on his toast, trying to hide a smile. 

Dean’s breakfast is gone in seconds; Cas only eats a few bites before giving up. Dean mentally adds scrambled eggs to the list of things that Cas doesn’t like…maybe he should try omelets instead. Sam inhales his breakfast and guzzles three cups of coffee borderline joyfully. 

Dean cleans up the kitchen. Sam goes to help Cas with his bandages. It doesn’t take long before everyone is ready to go. Life on the road means you’re almost always prepared to get up and out the door at a moment’s notice, even if that’s not quite a necessity in life. 

Dean twirls the keys around his finger. Sam gives Cas one last chance to cop out, which Cas refuses, and they all pile into the car, where Dean turns up the radio and shoots a silent prayer that this doesn’t all end in blood and tears. 

The farmer’s market is set up in the town square: a grassy area between the town hall and a white clapboard church. The space is currently covered with tables and awnings in neat rows, venders bustling about and the early morning shoppers milling in between. 

Dean parks a block away. 

“You sure about this?” Sam asks and Cas nods, doesn’t even roll his eyes at the excessive solicitation of his feelings. 

Dean nods at Sam, and they get out of the Impala and walk towards the market. They can hear voices and laughter, haggling, arguing, music starting. Smells—coffee, earth, spices, fruit, donuts—waft in the breeze. Steam rises off the pavement. It’s still cool, but the temperature is likely to climb quickly. The sun is bright, blinding, making Cas squint and Dean shade his eyes. Sam ducks into the pharmacy on the corner and comes out with three pairs of sunglasses, which Cas examines carefully before sliding over the bridge of his nose. He rocks the aviators well. With his tousled hair, jeans, and Dean’s AC/DC t-shirt, he looks human—like a very attractive human, a very attractive male human, a very attractive male human that Dean feels an overwhelming urge suddenly to throw up against the nearest wall and kiss senseless, just to see what noises Cas will make, to leave a bruise or two on his exposed neck to say ‘hands off, mine’. Woah, dude, he thinks, clearing his throat, and refocusing his attention elsewhere… 

True to Dean’s prediction the early morning crowd is composed primarily of the very old and the very young. Couples who look like they’ve been together forever stroll between the rows alongside harried young adults pushing strollers and strapping kids in backpacks. Some of them look chill, most of them look a little stressed, and Dean’s not sure why all of them give him a slight twinge of jealously when he would have been nothing but disdainful of them a few years ago. 

As promised, the brothers stick tight to Cas, framing him like a pair of sentinels, but much more casually. 

“You doin’ okay?” Dean asks before they plunge into the crowd. 

“Let’s as you say ‘do this thing,’” he sighs before striding forward, leaving Dean and Sam flummoxed but smiling slightly as they follow in his wake. 

One of the cool things about Cas’ humanity is watching someone, who has literally seen everything, experience things for the first time. It’s this trippy, amazing, kind of borderline miraculous juxtaposition between ancient wisdom and complete newness. Dean doesn’t think that he’ll ever get tired of it. That facet of Cas’ fall is on full display today as he is barraged by sights and smells and tastes, taking it all in through the filter of his new sunglasses. Dean watches him, openly staring, wondering at Cas, experiencing this through him, with him. 

Sam keeps a running commentary about the produce, which, hey, there is a lot of it, in every color and shape and size and texture. Dean doesn’t know what half of them even are let alone what they’re for, but Sam seems like an expert (he was totally a hippie wannabe all organic nutcase at Stanford; Dean always had his suspicions, but this is the final proof).

Sam catches his train of thought apparently because he glares at his brother and tells him to shut up.

“I didn’t say anything,” Dean laughs, mock innocent.

Cas is the vendors’ dream customer apparently, because he is intensely interested and enthusiastic about everything. Peering closely at cabbage and rutabaga. Inspecting carrots and apples and strawberries. Everyone offers him samples of herbs, fruits, and vegetables, talking his ears off about crops, and family land, and cross pollination, the precarious position of the bee population. Dean learns some things through this: like the fact that Cas really loves spearmint, his eyes pop at the cool freshness of it in his mouth, but despises cilantro, looks like he’s gagging on soap and has to force himself to swallow it. Cas is into strawberries and peaches and peppers. He is less enthusiastic about celery and apples. Dean is mildly concerned that Cas will begin a crusade to save the honeybee any day now…time for distraction.

Dean offers him a plum, “Nature’s sweet tart,” he cajoles, with an enticing wink.

“What’s a sweet tart?”

Dean snorts and smirks, “Just try it.”

Cas’ mouth purses at the bitter taste of the skin, but then his eyes fly wide as the sweetness of the flesh hits his tongue. 

“See?” Dean gins, all teeth, eyes trained on Cas’ tongue as it licks juice the corner of his mouth.

Sam looks at Dean like he’s insane, “How did you even—?”

“I’m not a total heathen, Sammy,” Dean taps him on the chest as he walks past, and he can hear his brother’s eye roll. 

Sam and Dean, in addition to being Cas’ personal body guards, are also his personal assistants or something, laden with paper bags filled with assorted vegetables and fruits that Cas wants to try and Sam wants to eat and Dean is willing to sample if it makes his boys happy. 

Cas soaks up everything: the banter, the conversations, the music, the crowd, the stalls. He adjusts (though he’s quite jumpy at first), and Dean is there with a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Sam is there with an encouraging smile, and they move along. As he relaxes, Cas starts to talk about markets that he’s seen, that he’s observed, in Rome, Constantinople, Alexandria, Rio, Mexico City, Baghdad, Dubai. He muses at the similarities and differences and sheer variety of human culture, natural design, of time and place and society. Sam asks Cas to talk more about Alexandria, about libraries and books and Egypt and Greece. 

Dean drifts for a moment, imagining he and Cas walking through the scenes he describes so vividly, all the colors and cadence, and, for possibly the first time in his life, Dean wonders if it would be worth it to get on a plane and cross the Atlantic, to marvel at Paris with Cas, or to visit the creepy ass fruit market he’s describing in Rome where some dude got burned alive for heresy and people thought that made the space perfect for hustling and bustling and shopping. The weird thing is that he can see it. Maybe not the background, maybe not the lingo, but he can see Cas, smiling for real, genuine and loose and light and happy, and popping cherries into his mouth and trying gelato, and getting a cappuccino mustache that Dean will kiss away…he feels a tightness in his chest, a goddamn longing, quickly followed by an ache because all those scenes that Cas describes, they’re just scenes. Cas didn’t get to experience them, not really, he couldn’t engage or interact. It’s like he said, looking at the world through a glass, and Dean wants him to go back, wants to take him back, now that he can see and feel and touch and taste and let him live it, live it with him. Experience it together, experience it for real. He wants it so fucking badly—

“Dean?”

“Huh?” he shakes from his reverie, and Sam frowns at him, "What?”

“C’mon,” he beckons, “the pie lady is just ahead.”

“Awesome.”

“What were you thinking about, Dean?” Cas asks, when Sam takes the lead. 

Dean feels heat crawl up his neck, he’s almost grateful that Cas can’t see his thoughts, “Just having a good day is all,” he smiles. 

Cas tilts his head, like he knows that Dean isn’t being totally honest, but he smiles faintly back, “So am I,” he nudges Dean’s shoulder just slightly, as if unsure of the motion or the gesture, but there is affection in it, or the intent of affection, so Dean nudges back with a grin. Cas blushes, and Dean is tempted strongly to loop an arm around Cas’ shoulder, place a kiss at his temple, spend the rest of the day tethered like that, but he shakes it off. Too much, too soon, not cool, he counsels himself, stop. 

“Are you all right, Dean?” Cas asks and a frown line appears, un-obscured by his sunglasses. Dean wants to smooth it out with his thumb, so he shoves his free hand in his pocket instead.

“Peachy,” he says, raising and shaking the bag of peaches with a smile. Cas rolls his eyes. 

“Even I know that that is a bad joke.”

“Everybody’s a critic.”

The pie is also peachy—peach crumble to be precise. The pie lady is offering samples and Dean is all over that. Her name is Jaimie, and she recognizes Sam from last week, giving him a warm smile.

“These are my…brothers, Dean and Cas,” Sam says, and Dean pulls up short overcome with pride in his baby brother for adopting his angel. 

“Sam, I—” Cas begins, but he gets sidetracked by a tug on his pant leg. There is a small boy about three or four with a mop of dark curls falling into big brown eyes. 

“You gotsa a boo boo,” he says pointing at Cas’ arms, which are covered in white bandages. Dean feels a wave of total panic because this is it, this is the moment when Cas has a breakdown and everything falls apart, he’s bracing himself, but then instead—.

“I am injured, yes,” Cas replies to the boy. Dean gapes like a fish. Jaimie goes to intervene, “Nathaniel,” she calls, but Sam waves her down, reassuring her and distracting her with questions about her bakery. 

The kid, Nathaniel, frowns sorrowfully. 

“Howdja get hurt?” he asks.

Dean worries that Cas is going to say something mentally scarring, irreparable; he’s holding his breath, waiting, but Cas surprises him again. 

“I Fell,” Cas replies honestly.

The boy nods solemnly, like he understands perfectly. He bends his arm and points to his elbow which is covered in Band-Aids, “I fell outta the swing. It hurt.”

Now it’s Cas who nods solemnly, kneeling so that he’s on a level with Nathaniel. 

“I am very sorry to hear that,” he assures him, “it hurt when I Fell, too.”

Nathaniel inclines his head, “”s cause a how you’re bigger. Mama says ‘a bigger they are the harder they fall.’”

Cas smiles softly, “Your bandages are much more colorful than mine.”

The kid’s eyes pop with enthusiasm the way small children’s do, “’at’s cause they’re Buzz Lightyear Band-Aids!” 

“What’s a Buzz Lightyear?”

The kid’s mouth forms a perfect O of disbelief and he looks to Dean for support. Dean shrugs slightly, still in a state of total shock.

“He’s a space ranger,” the kid explains, “and he saves people. He’s got a laser and he’s friends with Woody and Jessie and he’s the best. I wanna be a space ranger when I grow up.”

Cas blinks and his mouth twitches, “You would be a good space ranger,” he agrees, and the kid fucking beams. 

“Hold on!” he says and darts away coming back seconds later with a plastic Toy Story lunch box filled with a slinky, crayons, a coloring book, and, finally, a stack of Band-Aids. 

He struggles with small fingers to open one, but, when he succeeds, he smiles triumphantly before coming over and taking Cas’ hand. Cas has to fight down the urge to pull away, Dean sees him bite his lip, but he lets Nathaniel take his hand, the one not already covered in gauze, the one that has fresh feathered scars on its back, and Nathaniel presses the Band-Aid precisely and carefully onto the center of the exposed skin.

“Thank you,” Castiel says like this is an important gift and he takes it incredibly seriously.

“’Welcome,” Nathaniel replies, “now you’ve got a cool band aid.”

“It is,” Castiel agrees, studying it closely, “quite ‘cool.’”

Nathaniel waves Cas closer, and Cas goes. The boy stage whispers, “Your mom’s gotta kiss it to make it better,” he confides.

Castiel looks almost regretful, upset to disappoint this child, “I don’t have a mother.”

Nathaniel looks aghast and then troubled, pats Cas’ hand consolingly, “’Ats okay. I’ll do it,” he places a kiss on top of the Band-Aid with a loud smacking noise for emphasis and pulls back with a smile, “All better!”

Castiel studies his hand, flexes his fingers mechanically, studiously, “It feels much better,” he replies, “Thank you, Nathaniel.” 

“Welcome,” the boy replies before running back to his mom. 

Cas gets to his feet and faces Dean’s stupefied expression. Dean is blinking owlishly, vaguely aware of the fact that his jaw is hanging open, and Sam is glancing over at them with a barely concealed smile, whispering to Jamie. 

“Nathaniel gave me a ‘cool’ Band-Aid,” he says matter-of-factly, as if Dean had not just watched the exchange.

“I, ah, can see that,” he says, dumbstruck.

“How is the pie?” he asks.

“Fu—ah, fudging awesome. Here, try some.”

Castiel tries the peach cobbler with the same expression of extreme distrust that he gives the prospect of anything edible or technological.

“It’s delicious, dude, just try it.”

Cas agrees. 

They buy one to go, say their goodbyes, and Dean marvels at the fact that Cas is good with kids. Put that on the list of things that he never expected. Ever. Although, maybe it makes sense. People are just people to Cas. They’re all a little alien, a little foreign, a little incomprehensible. He doesn’t distinguish by race or age or class or creed or any of that. It’s just—humanity. So maybe, maybe it’s even a bit easier to relate to kids, who are just starting to figure out all this human stuff too…makes a weird kind of sense actually. More worryingly or weirdly is the fact that Dean is beyond confused at what the sight of Cas interacting with a kid is doing to his insides—it’s making his brain dart into regions and directions that he has no desire to go in, didn’t even know were there for fuck’s sake, and now he’s more than a little freaked out, forcing his brain to run in the other direction. He’s marveling at the realization that this outing is actually more traumatic and confusing for him than it is for Cas right now. 

Sam really enjoys being the tour guide. It’s kind of adorable. Showing the two of them around like he created this place specifically for them. The last time Dean saw Sam this excited was when he was in fourth grade and his class had had an open house for parents, so the kids could show their accomplishments and such, and Sam had had a lot of accomplishments. They’d been in one place for two months and he was excited, still, young. He’d wanted John to go, but John had been on a hunt, hadn’t been back for two weeks, and, even though he promised, on open house night, he’d been MIA. Sam was dejected and worried, but Dean, Dean had shown up, walked there himself, glared defiantly at anyone who gave them a pitying glance with all the wrath a thirteen year old could muster. Sam had darted around, embarrassed at first, but then more and more engaged, eager to show Dean his teachers and his science project, and his report on Brazil, and Dean had followed the chatter, proud to bursting of his geeky little brother who was so smart and so much better at this than Dean was, ruffling his hair proudly from time to time. 

He does that now too, more in jest than anything else. Sam rolls his eyes hard, but he shoves Dean affectionately. They get iced tea and pretzels and plop down on a bench in the sunshine by the small platform stage where the band is playing rock music. Sam strikes up a conversation with the people sitting next to them, an older couple (Jim and Daphne Macintosh) with a black lab (named Duke). 

“You boys new in town?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Just moved into the Mason place.”

“Mason? Really?”

“Yeah,” Sam confirms, “Rebekah Mason was our, ah, grandma.”

“Huh,” Jim huffs, “nobody’s lived up at the Mason place in years.”

Daphne nods, “People say that it’s haunted.”

Dean and Sam laugh uneasily, and Cas, unfortunately begins to say, “The house is impervious to—”

“—to that kind of nonsense,” Dean covers swiftly. Cas frowns, but gets distracted, thankfully, by Duke, who snuffles over to him curiously. Huh, good with kids and dogs, what the fuck is going on in this world? “Just like grandma.”

Daphne chuckles, “Rebekah never was one for nonsense.”

“You knew her then?” Sam asks eagerly.

“Yeah, small town like this, you hear stories, she was a bit older than us,” she continues, while her husband nods sagely, “the Masons always kept a bit to themselves, but Rebekah, she was a firecracker, feisty, a bit rebellious.”

Dean smirks at Sam, “Runs in the family.”

Daphne laughs, “I’m sure. That boy she married, the Winchester…what was his name? Harry? Herbert?”

“Henry,” Jim supplies.

“That’s right,” she pats him on the shoulder, “He was so serious that one, studious. They got married just after the war and moved out West. Indiana or Idaho or something,” she waves her hand, “they kept the house though when her parents died. It’s nice that you boys are living there now. Isn’t that right, Jim?”

“Mmhm.”

They continue to chat for a while about less meaningful things. Jim and Daphne leave with Duke and an invitation to come to dinner some night, which Sam accepts graciously, laying the puppy eyes on thick. 

Dean gets Cas to try lemonade (he’s slowly discovering that angels have sweet teeth because Cas just sort of sucks on his straw in a weirdly contented sort of way that makes Sam laugh). Sam makes plans for their purchases, and Dean moves to lie in the grass with an arm thrown over his eyes. The sun is warm and inviting, and, after a second, Cas lies down beside him. 

Sam is tanning nicely (the bastard), and Cas is getting sunburned on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, but he’s turning brown everywhere else. He keeps rubbing his Buzz Lightyear Band-Aid fondly. 

“We’re gonna have to do something about that,” Dean notes.

“What?”

“It’s bad if a three year old can beat you at pop culture trivia,” he replies with a smile to let Cas know that he’s joking.

Cas mumbles something and Sam laughs.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Cas can beat you at any other type of trivia,” Sam quips.

Dean grins like a shark, “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Game night,” Sam crows almost triumphant.

“Not Scrabble!”

“Hell yes Scrabble.”

“I’m showing no mercy in Monopoly.”

“Whatever dude.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cas reminds them. 

So Sam explains, and Cas cants his head almost excited by the prospect of competition. 

“Seriously though,” he notes in conclusion, “Dean’s got a point—”

“Ha!”

“We should probably get you some pop culture knowledge.”

Cas groans.

“Movie night,” Dean is stoked.

“Movie night,” Sam confirms.

“Movie night?” Cas asks as if it’s the equivalent of being lead to the guillotine. 

Dean just laughs, “We’ll order pizza; it’ll be awesome.”

They recline again, listening to the band.

“Dean,” Cas says a few moments later, interrupting his killer air drumming. 

He’s peering very closely at his face, too closely…“Your freckles are multiplying.”

Sam chuckles, “The sun does that.”

“Dude, you look like you’re pissed you lost count or something.”

Cas draws back, blushing furiously and looking anywhere but at Dean.

“Dude,” Dean says, flabbergasted, “have you been counting my freckles?”

Sam laughs so hard that he almost falls off the bench. 

“No,” Cas says, screwing up his face, and damn is he a bad liar.

“Dude, you have.”

“I have not.”

“You are such a shit liar, Cas.”

Cas glares at him, and Dean ruffles his hair lightly and then throws a peach at Sam, which he catches deftly, “Shut up.”

They head back into the fray once Cas looks less shifty, and Sam catches his breath. 

There are artisans throughout the market. Cas is entranced by a stall selling wind chimes and dream catchers and silver earrings.

“You wanna get pierced up, Cas?” Dean jokes while he studies Cas studying the small silver hoops. He’s startled when Cas seems to genuinely consider the proposition. “Seriously?”

Cas shrugs.

“You’d rock the pirate look,” Dean confirms, pursing his mouth and picturing it. 

“It helps me sleep,” Cas replies, which, Dean is really not sure how the hell imaginary piercings would do that.

“What?” 

“Sometimes, I count your freckles,” Cas makes an abortive movement with his hand, “to help me sleep. I did not intend to make you uncomfortable.”

“Nah, yah didn’t,” Dean notes, “better than sheep I bet.”

“What?” 

“Never mind.”

“Hey, Cas!” Sam shouts running over, “C’mon, I gotta show you something. We’ll be right back.”

“Okay, whatever, don’t invite me to your geek party,” Dean calls after them. If they weren’t in a public place, Sam would give him the finger, but Cas follows along behind Sam like a puppy or some shit. It’s kind of adorable actually. 

Dean moseys along on his own for a while, wondering where the hell they disappeared to, until he pulls up, distracted by a stand covered in woodwork and artisanal metal work. It’s intricate, and, Dean has to be real about it, kind of beautiful. He leans in close to examine a burnished steel statue. 

“Good ain’t it?”

The speaker is the owner of the stand; an older man with a thatch of white hair and bushy eyebrows over watery blue eyes. His face is craggy and weather-beaten.

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies honestly.

The man offers his hand, “Jack Wilson.”

“Dean Winchester.”

“You’re one of the boys that moved into the old Mason place?” he chuckles at Dean’s raised brows, “News travels fast…small town like this.”

“Bet it does.”

“My family did work up there while back.”

Dean raises his brows still higher, “While back?”

“Back when they laid the foundations,” he says with a wink.

“That so?”

“Yep,” the man narrows his eyes, sizing Dean up, “You seem like you got an eye for the work, son. Why don’t you stop by my shop over on Vine St. this week?”

Dean frowns; he’s suspicious, but curious, “I might just do that. Thanks, Jack.”

“Take care.”

Dean puzzles over whether this is the beginning of the end of their domestic idyll or just a step closer towards making it permanent. He was either offered a job or a job, and he’s not sure which is worse. 

He realizes that he has another purchase to make and he’s torn between pride and embarrassment about it. Sam and Cas meet him shortly thereafter, and he hides the brown paper bags in with the veggies. 

“Where’d you disappear to?”

“The library was having a book sale!” Sam says like it’s Christmas come early.

Cas is carrying a canvas bag filled with books and he’s grinning shyly about it. 

“Sam though that it would be good for me to experience literature.”

Dean smiles at Sam—thank you, you fucking genius—and Sam smiles back—you’re welcome, and, yeah, I know.

They walk around a bit longer, but the crowd and the heat are starting to build, and Cas is getting jumpy and slightly edgy at the increase in crowd volume, so they stock their stuff in the backseat and head home. 

They have their first movie night that evening. They order pizza: three to be exact. Hawaiian for Dean; broccoli and spinach for Sam, and plain because it’s a safe option if Cas hates the other two. 

“I’m almost embarrassed about this—” Dean begins when they’ve settled into the sitting room.

“No you’re not.” Sam jibes

“—but,” Dean glares at the interruption, “I think we’ve gotta do it.”

He puts Toy Story on. 

Cas is downright enraptured, and it’s probably the most endearing thing Dean’s ever seen. He wonders vaguely if he’s ever going to stop thinking that the simple shit Cas does is cute as fuck—probably not—fuck me. 

Sam has to remind Cas to eat his pizza because he seems mostly lost in the plot and the animation. 

He laughs, really, actually, honest to god, laughs, when Buzz Lightyear starts raving about Mrs. Nesbitt. 

It’s infectious and the brothers join in the chorus. 

“I liked it,” Cas pronounces when it concludes. His tone is shocked and it’s almost a point of pride that he enjoyed it. 

“Awesome!” Dean beams, “Thought you would.”

“I should thank Nathaniel for the recommendation.”

“You can tell him next time we go to the market,” Sam assures him.

That’s when they get down to brass tax because there will be a sequel to movie night and it must be planned assiduously. 

Dean grabs paper and a pen. Sam fetches his laptop. Cas makes everyone some coffee. 

“All right,” Dean proclaims, “Let’s start at the beginning.”

He scrawls Star Wars on the paper. 

“Hey!” Sam calls, “Check it with the group!”

“Chill, Sammy. It’s Star Wars,” he looks at Cas, “We’re watching the originals first.”

“I assume that decision has cultural significance of some sort,” Cas snarks, rolling his eyes.

“Lord of the Rings,” Dean lists, “Forrest Gump, Die Hard, Shawshank, Gladiator, my boy, Indiana, Star Trek, Butch Cassidy, Terminator, Fight Club—”

Sam pulls up all types of pretentious lists, “North by Northwest, Pan’s Labrinth, Annie Hall—”

“Seriously? The Shining, Taxi Driver—”

“The Philadelphia Story—”

“You are such a fucking girl; The Searchers—”

“Dude. To Kill a Mockingbird—”

“Braveheart.”

“Monty Python.”

“Better,” Dean counters, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest—” 

“The Godfather,” they say at the same time and laugh. 

Cas shakes his head at the two of them, as if to acknowledge that they are bickering in the only language that he doesn’t understand. 

They continue on like this for a while. Sam and Dean struggle over the physical list a few times. Sam wrenches it away because “Dude, Cas does not have to watch every Star Trek film ever made.” 

“The hell, Sam!”

Dean pilfers it back when Sam continues to put ‘artsy’ films on the list, “Do you want him to jump off the nearest cliff?” 

“I want him to experience culture beyond fucking B-movies!”

Castiel takes the list away from both of them when they argue over the necessity of including The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and he glares at them and refuses to give it back, essentially, until they agree to play nicely. 

At the end of their session they have well over a hundred movie titles scrawled out in no particular order. The sheet is layered with Dean and Sam’s handwriting, crossing out opposing selections, and indicating with arrows and x’s and stars in the margins which are priorities. It’s got a tear in one corner and it’s crinkled down the side, and Sam spilled coffee on the edge. 

Cas expresses his belief that people of the future would likely be able to recreate this argument based on this artifact. Dean isn’t sure if he’s kidding or not, he hasn’t joked in so long, but there’s something about the set of his mouth that leads Dean to believe that Cas’ dry humor is slowly returning and he chuckles appreciatively. 

“I assume this is an ongoing exercise,” Cas says, resigned.

“Hell yes!” Dean agrees, “We’re just getting started.”

“We haven’t even gotten into the foreign language flicks,” Sam says, and Dean is only about fifty percent sure that he’s fucking with him. Of course, it doesn’t really matter, Dean will suffer through the subtitles for Cas, and everyone here knows it. 

“Foreign language is relative,” Cas admonishes. 

And that distracts Sam for a moment, launching him into an intense philosophical debate about linguistics and imperialism and who the fuck knows what else. Dean honestly tunes it out; and, he’s gotta be honest, it makes a really beautiful background noise—he kind of smiles at nothing as the conversation builds. 

Cas eventually yawns widely and then looks around as if surprised by it. 

“I look forward to our foray into the cinematic world,” Cas tells them.

“Us too,” Dean replies.

“Get some sleep,” Sam encourages, “You’ve had a long day.”

“You did good.”

Cas blinks and averts his gaze, “Thank you,” he offers sincerely.

Dean would wave that off, uncomfortable, confused, unsure how to put his feelings into words, caught in his chest and burning there. 

Sam senses that because he says, “No problem, Cas, get some sleep.”

Dean watches Cas go and then turns to his brother, “Thanks, man.”

“For what?”

“For draggin’ me to your hippie commune,” he says gruffly, “it was fun. Tell anyone I said that, and I will shoot you.”

Sam chuckles, “I’m calling Bobby first thing tomorrow, don’t worry.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Seriously though…”

“I know.” 

“All right, well, imma hit the hay too I guess,” Dean says. His knees pop as he rises to his feet, “Night, dude.”

“Night.”

Dean goes to his room, changes into some sweats and a t-shirt, and grabs the paper wrapped parcels that he stashed under his bed. He leaves the small leather notebook on the desk in the library, right next to the one that Sam has almost completely filled with his narrow handwriting. 

He takes a deep breath and loosens his grip on the second item. It would suck to break it from nerves. Doesn’t want to look stupid…more stupid than he already will anyway. Where the hell is this even coming from? 

He knocks on Cas’ door, “Cas,” he whispers, “You still up?”

He pushes the door open, and finds Cas lying in bed, book in hand. He peers up at Dean over the cover, hair mussed and eyes bright. 

“I do not sleep easily, as you’re aware,” Cas says, “I thought I might begin one of these novels.”

“How’s it going?”

“I think that I…I like it.” Cas looks unsure. 

“You and Sam are gonna start a book club soon,” he jokes

“You should join us,” Cas offers seriously. Really seriously, like the prospect of Dean’s presence in this weird literature sharing and caring circle would be welcome and even necessary for it to work. 

“Yeah,” Dean says finally, “yeah, if you want me to.”

Cas smiles slightly. 

“No romance novels.”

Cas nods, “Of course not.”

Cas closes his book (Dean catches the title: The Count of Monte Cristo) and places it on the floor by his bed and then he settles, watching Dean hesitate. He waits for Dean as if he has all the time in the world, but he inclines his head at Dean’s uncertainty, a silent inquiry: tell me what’s troubling you. 

“I—ah, got you something,” he finally blurts out, biting his lip and fumbling slightly, awkward, nervous, feeling stupid and out of place.

Cas furrows his brow quizzically, “That was kind but unnecessary. You have already…given me much.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not anything big or whatever, it’s just—here.” He shoves the brown paper parcel into Cas’ hands and perches on the edge of the bed to wait. Anxiety jumps around his chest, he jostles his leg. 

Cas opens the wrapping slowly, very gently, like he’s handling a small bird. When he gets it open, he just stares at the object in his hands, eyes wide, expression closed. 

“I figured it might be uh, good for the nightmares,” he stammers, wondering why in the hell he thought this was a good idea. Stupid fuck, Dean.

“You marked these sigils yourself,” Cas whispers, tracing the carvings that Dean laid into the wood. It’s a dream catcher, bound in wood and leather.

“Yeah.” He wants to explain that he knows it won’t keep the nightmares away; but that he carved in all the protective markings he could think of. He wants Cas to have this so that it will keep some part of Dean there with him in the dead of night, even when Dean himself can’t be. He wants to say, I know it’s fucking corny as fuck and stupid and shit, but I saw it and it made me think of you and I just, I wanted you to have it. I thought it might make you smile. I’m a fucking moron. He doesn’t say any of that. The first part Cas knows, knows better than Dean that nightmares can’t be held at bay unless you have a guardian angel watching over you. The rest, well, the rest Dean is either too chicken or too fucking stupid to say.

Finally, at-fucking-last, Cas looks up at Dean, “It is beautiful. Thank you.”

His eyes are wet and his fingers are gentle, and Dean wants to place his own hands, calloused and rough as they are, on Cas’ face, wants to cradle his jaw and run his thumb across his cheek, and let him see, show him, how fucking beautiful he is, how fucking much he matters. What the fuck is wrong with me? Dean is tense across every inch of his body and he’s frozen, sparks, he can feel those sparks again, catch between them. 

He shrugs, smiles brashly, hiding whatever is burning through him, “No worries.”

“No,” Cas says firmly, “I…I appreciate this gesture, it’s…thank you. I’m attempting to thank you.”

Dean stares into the blue abyss of Cas’ eyes, wonders how he’s gone so long without drowning in them. Notes the shadows on his face, the slight sunburn and few freckles on his nose, and Dean is overwhelmed with a sense of awe and tenderness and affection that wells up from his deepest core and flows out through him. 

You’re welcome, Cas.” You’re worth so much more than this, and I’d give you anything you want. Anything. I swear. He’s a bit freaked out by how much stock Cas places on such a small item, but…it’s a big gesture, the Sam voice in his head says, don’t try to deny it. 

Dean sighs, he moves slowly so that Cas can stop him if he wants, but Cas just waits, patient, focused, and Dean ruffles his hair, and as he pulls his hand back, he doesn’t resist the urge to let his fingers brush Cas’ jaw as they make their way to his shoulder and squeeze. 

“Get some sleep,” he whispers, as he rises to his feet, leaving Cas with a frown that turns quickly contemplative. 

“Pleasant dreams,” he replies.

When Dean comes in to Cas’ room later that night, when Cas screams from his nightmares, and Dean wakes him, and they sit in the darkness, he sees the dream catcher hanging in the window and he feels elated for a moment, just a moment, before refocusing on Cas’ shivering form and wishing the damn thing would work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'd like to apologize for the fact that this installment is ten days later than I promised. Real life got very real (and not in a good way) over the past two weeks. That being said, I hope this schmoopy, saccharine, fluffy, domestic nonsense made up for my deplorable tardiness. I would really love to hear your thoughts. To those of you who reviewed the last chapters: THANK YOU SO MUCH! I just got them and I'm going to be replying to you over the next few days. Seriously, thank you all of you for supporting and encouraging this story. It means so much to me. Until next time, all my love...


	14. Little Pink Houses

Bobby drives out just in time for the Fourth of July. To be completely honest, no one had really registered the approach of the holiday. It’s not like they didn’t have other things on their minds. Everything went well at the Farmer’s Market, but broke down horribly when someone accidentally bumped into Cas in the grocery store a few days later. This resulted in an overturned display of oranges in the produce section and a lot of gawking and general discomfort; it had further evolved into Dean becoming embroiled in a, ah, ‘heated debate’ if you would, with the general manager of the store, two clerks, and three appalled soccer moms. Sam tried to run interference on both sides with little success.

As much as Cas was bolstered by his progress, anything that set him off or set him back, triggered a downward spiral into silence, dejection, withdrawal, and increased sensitivity. That reaction is totally justified given that the general populace seems to make every single one of these moments about a thousand times worse. Cas gets this lost, beaten puppy look on his face that makes Dean simultaneously want to murder everyone who so much as looks at him wrong and wrap Cas in all the comfort he can muster. He just seems so damn dejected sometimes, there isn’t much Dean can do except, as Sam constantly reminds him, ‘be here for him.’ A hard feat when Dean feels powerless—propelled by the impulse to do something with absolutely no way to channel it out of his system. Those days usually lead to long runs or increased sparring practice in the space they’ve cleared in the basement. 

Sam maintains, with sorrowful puppy eyes, that Cas is ‘internalizing’ the way that people look at him, like he’s a freak nine times out of ten when he’s in public. Dean wants to rip their lungs out. He’s pretty sure that sometimes, though he hides it better, Sam does too. It’s not Cas’ fucking fault that he’s dealing with angelic PTSD; it’s not his fucking fault that he doesn’t know the rules of social interaction; it’s fucking not his fault that he’s got angelic sensory deprivation and human sensory overload at the same time, and can’t handle being touched. None of this is fucking his fault and it would be fucking nice if the fucking people, who, incidentally are only alive because of Cas, would stop making him feel like shit. Would stop making him think that he’s shit because it is fucking unacceptable. Dean needs to take deep breaths sometimes so that he doesn’t do anything that Sam would consider ‘stupid.’

All in all, Cas’ recovery is built on a pretty vicious cycle. He still has nightmares, every night. Sometimes, if he’s extra lucky, he gets more than one a night. They are all fucking terrible; Dean can tell just looking at Cas’ eyes, dark and terrified, haunted as if by hell. The worst one so far had been a week ago, when Cas had screamed, in Enochian, loud enough for both Dean and Sam to sprint into his bedroom. They found him clawing at his back, nails digging bloody tracks into the skin of his shoulders, eyes wild and voice piercing. It had taken them a full twenty minutes to get him calm enough to realize who they were (a process complicated by the fact that they had to physically restrain his arms—which, in case you didn’t know, were extremely strong and, in this case, wicked determined—and the physical contact had fully quadrupled to force of his freak out). They needed another ten minutes to get him to speak in English, and another half hour to clean him up. He was shaken, badly, they all were. Cas didn’t want to talk about the nightmare and that progressed to him not wanting to talk beyond monosyllables for an two days. The silence set Dean on edge and made Sam cast them both concerned glances, which did nothing at all to alleviate the tension that floated through the house and congealed around them like ice. 

Dean’s inability to sit still in the face of silence—specifically silence surrounding problems he can’t fix—is likely going to drive him crazy. It certainly grates on Sam’s nerves, and he points out that Dean’s ‘aggrieved sighing’ is going to drive him up the wall. That prompts another frustrated sigh from Dean, which elicits an pained eye roll from Sam, and the cycle repeats. 

Cas levels out, but he rarely looks happy or easy. It seems like the farther they get from Cas’ fall, the more intense his flash-backs or whatever become; the more likely he is to be triggered, the less sleep he gets. Dean isn’t sure what to do and neither is Sam. It seems like every time they think they’ve got their bearings, the ground shifts and they realize their foundations are actually built on sand. Dean has a headache that not even the soothing rumble of the Impala’s engine can fully dispel. 

That’s what propels Dean’s visit to the carpentry and metal work shop on Vine St. He’s laid down with holy water, silver, and a gun filled with rock salt rounds, but Jack Wilson turns out not to be a threat. He isn’t a hunter and he isn’t a Man of Letters. He’s something of a liaison between the two. He’s got the lore, comes from a long line of people in the life, and he specializes in the creation, care, and acquisition of artifacts of a mystical nature. He chuckles appreciatively at Dean’s suspicion and weaponry, willingly goes through all the tests, (and passes with flying colors). He proceeds to show Dean the back room of his shop, laden with furniture, relics, weapons, each, in its own way, a work of art. 

“You make all these?” Dean asks, examining a silver knife, covered entirely in almost invisible sigils, so powerful that it practically sings in his fingers. 

“Most of ‘em,” Wilson nods, hands in his pockets, watching Dean, “Like I said, my family helped lay the foundation up at that house of yours. Used to be contracted for big projects…these days;” he shrugs, “select hunters come through looking for things; the rest we sell—”

“Sneaking hoodoo and good mojo out to the civilians,” Dean whistles through his teeth. It’s smart. Impressive even. He lingers at a wooden rocking chair, hand carved, designs covering the sides, wood chosen for protection, and tiny sigils, only some of which Dean recognizes, spelling for purity and light. Cas would know the rest of them, could read the work like a book. 

“I’m impressed,” he finally admits. He wishes that he had had access to this place when he was still actively going against monsters and mayhem every day. Would have been useful. 

Jack smiles, accepting the compliment gracefully, “There’s a spot here for you if you want it,” he offers some time later, when Dean has perused every inch of the shop.

“Like a job?”

Jack inclines his head, “I’m getting’ on in years, I don’t have a son to pass the work to. Way I see it; you’ve got the eye and the hand for the work. If you want it, it’s yours. I’d be happy to have you: boy that stopped the apocalypse.”

“How’d you know about that?” Dean blusters. He doesn’t like discussing it, remembering the price tag that was attached, the price they’re still paying. 

“Word travels,” Jack replies, “Look, think it over; talk about it with your partner—” it takes Dean a full minute to realize that he’s not talking about Sam, but Cas, that he’s not here under the guise of FBI agent or CDC official or whatever the fuck else, so when Jack says partner, what he means when he’s referring to Cas as Dean’s partner…Dean blinks, a weird sense of jittering warmth floods his stomach and heat floods his face before he squashes all of that…incredulity, shock, embarrassment, disbelief, and weirdly of all, hope, (wondering if he should correct the statement), and tunes back into the conversation, “—place is yours if you want it. You just let me know. You know where I am.”

They shake hands firmly, and Dean leaves to talk the proposition over with—well, with Sam and Cas. Nothing weird about that, at all, Dean muses, hands gripping the wheel firmly, Being honest with your family, just like you said you would be. Four for you, Winchester. Don’t even go there… 

Sam is suspicious at first, but that quickly turns into unbridled excitement and support. Dean thinks that Sam is probably gonna try to invade the shop on bring your child to work day.

“I think this is a great opportunity.”

“Yeah, you just want to get me out of the house so you can get all kinky with the books in the library.”

“Dick,” Sam retorts, but he’s smiling through his annoyance, so Dean lets it slide, “You do need to do something before you go stir crazy though, and, before you even say it: Cas will be fine here while you’re out.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Dean protests, even though that was exactly what he’d been about to say. Sam just levels him with a stare that quite clearly expresses the fact that he's not buying what Dean’s selling. Fucking kid brothers, think they fucking know everything. 

“Cas is way better with the library than I am,” Sam continues while Dean glowers, blithely pretending he hadn’t spoken at all, “and you’ll be way better if you’ve got a project to work on too. No offence, but you really suck at sitting still.”

“Bite me, Sam,” Dean replies, but his brother is right. Dean needs something to do beyond tinkering around the house (especially now that mostly all the work is done), and this, this is something he can do. It’s in his skill set, it’s something he’s good at even, it’s close enough to hunting that he doesn’t feel totally alien, and it would mean working to protect people with someone who knows the life and wouldn’t treat Dean like a freak because he needs to salt windows and doors. In fact, Wilson would probably teach Dean how to set those glass inlays that they have here in every threshold. It’s kind of awesome. Dean is inherently suspicious, and he worries about telling Cas because, well, because he doesn’t want Cas to think he’s being abandoned. He never ever wants that...again. Cas has lived that more than enough already; he doesn’t need it from Dean. He also doesn’t want to disrupt whatever tenuous, fragile stability that currently exists in Cas’ life. If Cas is not cool with this, Dean decides, he won’t do it. No fucking way. It is surprisingly un-troubling how quickly he comes to that conclusion and how totally okay with it he is. Like it’s an inevitability that Cas is second only to Sammy in Dean’s decision making process. He wonders vaguely when exactly that became the case, but he doesn’t question the sentiment itself. He’s glad of it in some way. He definitely doesn’t dwell on the fact that he’s basing his decision on talking to Cas, just as Wilson had said he should, when he’d said to talk the proposition over with his partner…no, he definitely doesn’t dwell on that…

Nevertheless, Dean shuffles slightly with a fake smile plastered on his face when he tells Cas about the offer. Cas watches him through narrowed eyes, like he’s puzzling out all the things that Dean isn’t saying. 

When Dean concludes his undoubtedly rambling speech with “but if you’re not cool with it, I’ll say no, I mean—”Cas crinkles his nose and waves a hand, effectively shutting Dean up immediately, “Why would I not be ‘cool with it’?” he inquires, truly puzzled.

“Well, I, ah—” Dean rubs the back of his neck absently.

Cas continues, “You want this. You would excel at this. You’ve missed having a mission on which to focus your energies. Why would I be ‘uncool’ with something that will make you happy?”

Like it’s that simple. Like Dean’s happiness should be a priority; is a priority. A lump forms in Dean’s throat: how the fuck does Cas figure this shit out? He feels weirdly naked, exposed, vulnerable, and the feeling intensifies as Cas keeps going, “You shouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this out of a misplaced sense of obligation,” when Dean blinks, Castiel clarifies, “to me.”

“Not misplaced,” Dean retorts gruffly, the first thing that pops into his head.

Cas shrugs stiltedly, shoulders still sore from a midnight finger gouging, “I don’t wish to ‘hold you back.’”

Dean sighs, sitting next to Cas, who blinks clearly startled by the closer proximity. Dean ignores the way that it makes him feel like he’s suddenly got a livewire running across his skin, “One: you’ve gotta stop letting Sam make you watch Lifetime,” the joke does nothing but make Cas blink confusedly, and so Dean exhales and continues, “Two, you’re not an obligation, Cas.”

“I complicate your lives greatly,” he replies, regret heavy on his tongue and in his eyes. This is one of those things that he’s ‘internalizing,’ as Sam would point out.

“Hey,” Dean replies fiercely, he hates when Cas looks like that, “the way I see it, we’re the ones that complicated the fuck out of your life. You were doing just fine for what? a couple billion millennia? Playing harps on clouds and shit before we showed up and screwed everything to hell.”

Cas inhales deeply through his nose, speaks deliberately as if Dean is slower than most, “One,” he parodies, “I have never played a harp; celestial ‘music,’ as such, is not made with human instruments; that is a great misconception propagated by the Hallmark corporation,” Dean laughs despite himself at Cas’ smitey face, and Cas looks shocked by the sound and then exceedingly pleased with himself, or, as pleased as someone can look when he doesn’t quite know how to smile. I need to fix that, Dean thinks, cause Cas has a great smile—he refocuses, “Two, you have greatly complicated my life,” Dean averts his gaze, but Cas moves infinitesimally closer, rough voice near to Dean’s ear for emphasis, as if to say, if you will not look at me, you will at least hear me, “that is not always a bad thing, Dean.”

Dean’s head snaps up, swiveling to meet Cas and for the briefest second their faces are only an inch apart and their eyes meet and the air disappears and Dean wants to surge forward, close the distance and the need is so strong in him that he is almost brushing—

“Dean!” Sam calls, and Dean comes back to himself. Cas takes a deep breath, like he’d stopped for a moment, and blinks; Dean moves back and drops the hand that had risen unbidden, reaching towards Cas. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or frustrated, decides that he’s an uncomfortable combination of the two and groans, getting to his feet. 

“What?” He yells more jovial than he feels.

“Bobby’s on the phone, better get down here,” he shouts up the stairs, then, in a quieter tone, “No, yeah, he was talking to Cas. Uhuh. Tell me about it—” his voice trails off and Dean really doesn’t want to know. At all. He clears his throat. 

“So, uh, I’m gonna—” he gestures vaguely towards the hallway.

“Yes, of course,” it could be Dean’s imagination but Cas’ voice is deeper, disappointed, and he’s glancing away pointedly, “Send Bobby my greetings.”

“Right, yeah, will do,” he hurries towards the door and pauses at the threshold, “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Cas does smile then, a small, almost invisible smile that makes Dean’s heart beat uncomfortably hard, because he’s the only one that Cas looks at like that.

“Of course.” 

When they get off the phone with Bobby, Dean calls Jack Wilson and takes the job. 

Dean has done all kinds of side work over the years. He’s dabbled in carpentry and he’s good with mechanics, with metal, with tools, with knives. Even so, this is different, this is new. He’s an apprentice of sorts. Mixing together those practical skills with his hunting knowhow and what Jack calls his ‘natural artistry’ ‘more like natural bullshit,’ Dean mutters. But Dean’s a fast study, a quick learner, and, he’s gotta admit, he’s good at this, he likes this, and honestly it’s surreal but amazing to use sharp objects to create something other than an artfully decorated corpse…and he’s still helping people in the process. He gets lost sometimes in the work. Learning the proper tools and sigils and marks, the appropriate materials and the timing and the importance of intent—sometimes he gets homework and he treats it more seriously than he ever did the shit he got assigned in high school. He whittles in the evenings now, when Cas and Sam work on their latest adventure in supernatural literature. Dean feels less inclined to jump out of his skin, and, hey, maybe Sam and Cas were right, he needed something to focus his energy on besides pacing around the house and worrying. Constant motion is what he’s used to, it’s what he needs, and he can have it and stay still. This is keeping him from climbing at the walls. Sometimes, in the evenings, Cas will sit close to his shoulder, and softly correct the set of Dean’s hands on the knife or the curve of a sigil, before teaching Sam an Enochian phrase. Sam will comment on how nice the piece Dean is working on is coming, and they both thank Cas for his help, and everyone feels slightly more settled, feels more stable. 

Between the new job, the library project, home repairs, and fielding Cas’ sharply oscillating ability to cope with his species reassignment, it’s no wonder really that they lost track of time. It’s not like they necessarily wanted to count down the anniversary of Cas’ fall. Dean isn’t the best at social niceties, but he’s a hundred percent positive that getting someone a cake with “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” “Welcome to mortality, you’re stuck here till you die, congrats” or “Sorry you lost your wings, bro” would be in really poor taste. Maybe they intentionally lost track of time. Dean sure as fuck isn’t sure. 

It’s a bit of a surprise when they realize that Bobby is gonna be there in seventy-two hours and they’ve got to get their shit together. The Fourth of July thing is off the radar until Bobby actually pulls into the driveway and calls their patriotic inclinations into question because there’s not a hint of red white or blue on the place. It takes Dean about ten minutes to process why there should be and oh, OH, they kinda missed the boat on that one. He shares a glance with Sam, who looks just as surprised, and then nods his head pointedly in Cas’ direction, before he snarks that, “Never seen you decorate for the holiday, old man.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, idjit.” 

They hug gruffly with back thumping and spine crushing intensity, and damn is it good to see Bobby. Cas stands awkwardly to the side, and Bobby comes up to him last, after Dean and Sam have been embraced.

“Good to see you too, boy,” he greets, mindful of what the boys said about letting Cas initiate physical contact of any kind (“I ain’t gonna grope the birdbrain,” he’d retorted). Cas’ mouth twitches upward, and Dean feels a surge of affection for them both: for Cas being included, for Bobby caring about all his damn lost boys and strays. After a moment of deep seated consideration, Cas offers his hand and Bobby smiles, taking it in a firm grip, Cas only winces slightly at the contact of their palms and Dean, Dean’s proud of him for that. 

There had been a brief discussion in their preparations for Bobby’s arrival about where the old man would sleep. Cas had offered up his bed, but both Sam and Dean had immediately shut that down. “No way” “You have enough trouble sleeping in your own damn bed, you’re not sleeping on the fucking couch, Cas.” Dean offers his room, but Sam gives him something of a discerning glance, and says, “Nah, he can take mine.” “We can take turns.” “Don’t be stupid” “Shut up.” Dean is torn between his desire to be close to Cas in case he needs him and his determination to not let Sam bunk on the couch. 

The issues still isn’t resolved when Bobby shows up at the house and Sam, rat that he is, drags Bobby’s duffle up to his room in the initial melee. Dean glares, Sam smiles triumphantly, Cas frowns in confusion, and Bobby gives Sam a nod that looks way too approving for Dean’s taste. 

“You gonna invite me in, or we gonna spend the week camped out in the driveway?” Bobby eventually blusters.

Sam laughs, Dean throws his arm around Bobby, and Cas follows in their wake like a duckling. Dean makes a mental note to start calling “make way for ducklings,” when Cas crosses the hall. He’s not sure how but Sam seems to catch that thought apropos of nothing because he gets bitchface #18 I don’t know what you’re up to, but whatever it is you’re thinking; NO. Dean pulls and extremely innocent “I didn’t do anything” expression in return and Cas narrows his eyes at the two of them. Sam’s right, the poor bastard is a barometer for Dean’s moods. Bobby just shakes his head. 

“Before one of you gives me the grand tour,” he says in the foyer, forcing his eyes away from the salt and sigils, “I got you boys some house warming gifts.”

“Aw, Bobby, you shouldn’t have,” Dean sasses. 

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, Dean, shut up,” Sam cuffs him over the head.

“Ow, you shut up.”

“I drove fourteen hours for this shit,” Bobby mutters. 

Castiel glances at him and the boys, “I empathize with your aggrieved state.”

“Thank you,” Bobby says, “at least one of your morons is a grown up.”

“Hey!” the boys reply in unison.

“Here,” he shoves a package into Dean’s hand. 

“It is a pony?” Dean mocks, but sobers quickly under Bobby’s scowl, clearing his throat and opening the envelope. 

“Frank Devereaux, friend of mine, hooked it up, you’ll be needin’ it.” 

“Frank Devereaux?” Sam frowns.

“Isn’t he that crazy dude with the CIA conspiracy theory?”

Bobby raises his brows, “Only conspiracy theories if they ain’t true.”

“C’mon, Bobby, I thought you were BBFLS with Uncle Sam?” Dean jabs.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t use the BBFLS unironically in a sentence,” Sam deadpans.

“Don’t be jealous cause you’re not hip anymore, Sammy.”

“No one says ‘hip’ anymore, Dean.”

“Shows what you know.”

“I love my country,” Bobby interrupts with his eyes reaching heavenward, probably praying for patience, Dean beams, “Don’t mean I trust the idjits who run it.”

“That’s wise,” Castiel notes, “They are responsible for many atrocities; a good portion of them are on hell’s payroll.”

“Reassuring,” Dean snarks. 

“You gonna stop foolin’ around and open your present or you gonna stand there staring all day.”

Dean rolls his eyes, shakes himself, and opens the envelope. There are licenses, passports, birth certificates, social security cards, everything they’ll need and a lot more legit than anything they would put together on their own. There’re copies for Dean, for Sam, and for Cas. Dean deliberately doesn’t look closely at Cas’ doesn’t want to see the name that written there or the fabricated details of his life.

“Nice mug shots,” he says instead, passing the contents to Sam.

“Shut up.” 

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam offers sincerely, and Bobby shrugs. 

“You boys need more as you get settled, you let me know, I’ll make a call.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says looking very thoughtfully at his very own license. Not that Dean is going to be letting him drive Baby anytime soon. He mentally adds driving to list of things that Cas needs to learn.

“Yeah, well,” Bobby continues, gruffly and somewhat sheepishly, “There’s whiskey and a Fichus in the car.” 

Dean laughs then sobers when Bobby doesn’t join in, “Wait, are you serious?”

“No, I brought you a damn unicorn,” he rolls his eyes, “One of you boys gonna show me around this place, or what?”

Sam practically skips with excitement, rambling as he goes. It’s kind of adorable, precious even when Gigantor does a riveting impression of a five year old girl. All he’s missing are some fairy wings and a tutu. Dean should get on that, it’ll make one hell of a birthday present for next year. He snickers to himself as Bobby follows behind Sam, shaking his head in bemusement. 

Cas watches them, but doesn’t immediately follow, “You okay, Cas?” Dean asks shaking him from his reverie. 

“Yes, of course,” Cas frowns, attempts to feign a smile and fails horribly. 

“Where were you just now?” Dean is all concern, an instant transition from levity to solemnity.

“Right here,” Cas replies puzzled.

Dean rolls his eyes, “Physically, yeah, I meant mentally,” he taps his own temple for emphasis, “you looked like you zoned out.” 

“I—,” Cas begins, “I—just became lost for a moment.”

Dean is about to push the issue further, but Sam calls out for them to “come on, already” and Dean sighs as Cas shakes his head and follows with Dean a pace behind to join Sam in giving the magical mystery tour. 

Bobby is impressed with the foundations of the house. He’s more impressed with the library Sam goes into fits and raptures and is about a second away from swooning like a damn maiden in a fairy tale when Bobby points out a section of tomes that Sam hadn’t recognized and offers to translate the Japanese collection. It’s pretty damn funny, and not even Sam’s glare is enough to make Dean stop laughing. Bobby continues onward; he examines the protective sigils with a scholar’s trained eye and he glances fondly, almost softly, at their bedrooms. The warmth in his expression is a bit much so Dean shifts away after briefly showing Bobby his growing record collection, closing the door and fighting the weird heat in his neck and face, not meeting Bobby’s eyes, his too understanding gaze.

They show him the stack of hex boxes and chests and various occult objects that no one has opened yet and Bobby responds with a sigh somewhere between exasperation and anticipation. 

Sam blathers on about Legacies and Men of Letters and craftsmanship and history and blah blah blah. Cas occasionally chimes in with a mild correction, which Sam accepts glibly—going off on a tangent of questions—before continuing his narration. Dean doesn’t really care very much about the details right now, this is stuff he knows and, yeah, he’s heard Cas make that same correction before. Shame on Sammy for not paying better attention. 

When the grand tour ends with them back in the living room, Bobby takes up residence in an armchair, Sam stands, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, and Cas sinks onto the sofa, and pulls his knees towards his chest. 

“You done good work sprucin’ this place up,” Bobby nods.

“Dean modernized the house,” Sam says with a lopsided smile. 

Dean rolls his eyes, “Wasn’t a big deal.”

Cas notes that, “Sam is largely responsible for the décor.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorts, “Rachel Ray over there went to town on the place.”

Sam glares, “Shut up.”

“The appliqué pillows were all you, man, I’m just givin’ credit where it’s due,” Dean continues, “Better homes and gardens is coming out for a photo shoot next week.”

Bobby rolls his eyes, Sam glares, and Cas shoots a ‘this is one of those stupid human conceptions that I really just do not understand’ scowl at him and Dean shrugs.

They have what Dean calls a “Red-Blooded American” dinner that night. Steaks and potatoes on the grill…and, begrudgingly fish because Sam is a giant pussy and had bitched about the amount of red meat in Dean’s diet. 

“Dude,” he’d said before they headed to the grocery store (because grocery lists are a largely interactive process these days and increasingly garner more variety as their kitchen experiments continue with varying degrees of success), “We are not having red meat every day for a week.” 

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I’d really rather not clog my arteries any more than they already are.”

He had thrown around “cholesterol” and “high blood pressure” and, so help him god, “you aren’t seventeen anymore, you can’t just throw whatever you want into your system.” 

Dean had shaken his head in complete disgust and annoyance, but Cas who had been at the table, crafting a list of produce, had perked up considerably and, to Dean’s dismay, sided with Sam.

“It’s important to take care of your cardiovascular system, Dean, Sam is right,” he had agreed with a pinched mouth and a squint of doom, “according to leading cardiologists, it’s recommended that men over twenty-five—”

“Please, tell me you did not let Cas on WebMD.”

“Of course I—”

“I actually engaged in a conversation with several physiologists at Johns Hopkins.”

Dean and Sam just kind of blinked at that pronouncement, before Dean rounded on Sam, poking a finger into his giant brother’s broad chest, “This is your fault.”

Sam stood his ground and gave him bitch face #229 it’s not my fault that you continually disregard your life and cavalierly throw yourself into danger without even thinking of the consequences. Dean was momentarily floored by the fact that he was getting #229, when had red meat become a danger? Fucking domesticity. Fucking brothers. Fucking angels. Jesus Christ.

He turned to Cas, “We’re limiting your internet access.”

But Cas had a look of defiance as if to say, “I’d like to see you try.” Dean has the first niggling fear that Sam and Cas are going to create a united front to undermine his life choices, which is just not fair. The two of them are a formidable obstacle when united. Fuck my life.

The actual trip to the grocery store (alternatively entitled Cas’ Adventures with the Stupid Humans Part III), had not been that terrible, which basically, for them, meant that it was good. 

Dean stuck to Cas like a second shadow. Sam manned the cart. Cas glared at everyone within smiting distance, a warning not to fuck up his day. He probably scarred a couple of kids, Dean’s plenty aware of how fucking terrifying it is to be on the other end of that look, but, as Dean was giving the stink eye to everyone—from the harried moms, spending twenty plus minutes trying to decide between cereals, to the greasy teenagers on a junk food run, and the babies riding shotgun in strollers, gnawing contentedly on bagels—he didn’t have room to judge. In fact, he may or may not have experienced a vague sense of propriety over Cas, a certain sense of ‘yeah, that’s my boy, don’t fuck with him,’ which, yeah, he wasn’t gonna analyze, no fucking way, especially given that Sam was the only one who looked like a normal human being, smiling vaguely at other shoppers in a ‘please forgive my overly aggressive brother, he’s having a sexual identity crisis, and my socially inept friend, he just fell from heaven, don’t worry, I won’t let them commit any homicides today’ sort of way. 

Cas likes the produce section the best. All the shapes, colors, and textures are like a smorgasbord for the senses. He loads things into the cart with the air of a museum curator examining the merits of a work of art. He talks about where Papayas grow, and how he’s always wondered what they taste like and ‘how does one cut a pineapple?” and ‘have you ever tried starfruit, Dean?’ ‘Why not?’ ‘What about Kiwis?” ‘Can we grill a coconut?’ ‘What is the best way to prepare a yucca?’ ‘I have never heard of a pluot.’ 

Dean feels like he’s on an adventure with a curious five year old who works for National Geographic. The combination is exceptionally Cas and extremely endearing.

They end up with a little bit of everything because every time Dean cautions, “what if you don’t like it?” or “how about we get that next time?” or “broccoli again, Cas, really? Broccoli?’ Cas counters with a pout that has no right to be that adorable on someone over a billion years old, and, ‘Broccoli is delicious, Dean, and it looks like tiny trees.” Dean rolls his eyes, to cover his traitorous heart melting, and adds two extra things of fucking broccoli to the cart while Cas collects apricots. 

Sam and Cas have a really, really long discussion about the merits of various fish and Mercury levels in the water, and humane treatment of animals, and Dean has to intervene because he would rather not spend the rest of his life at the meat counter. They end up with Tilapia and Salmon (Sam insists they’re brain food, and Dean counters that they all know he needs it). Cas seems horrified by the Lobster tank and Dean makes a mental note to take him to the beach when he’s up for it.

The trip was a success; no one panicked, no one freaked out, and they made it home without serious injury, or Dean getting a lifetime ban. Small victories. 

So now, the day before the fourth, they’re grilling up a storm. It’s hot and gross. Dean is vaguely concerned that his eyebrows will get singed off from the flames (which “wouldn’t be an issue,” Sam calls, “if you would step back from the fire.” “All right, Carebear, you’re the one that’s gonna bitch when Flounder goes up in smokes” “You’re grilling Salmon” “Freaking Pyro.” “Idjits”). 

Dinner turns out okay. The steak is amazing, and Dean keeps making outlandish noises to piss off Sam. Cas seems relatively content with his fish and his veggies (even though Dean knows that he’s gonna be the first one on the cheeseburger train tomorrow, cholesterol or not). Bobby declares the meal ‘better than I expected’ and Sam threatens to get Dean a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. 

The problem with forgetting a holiday is that you forget the things that go along with it. Or, maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s that you don’t really have time to put the trappings of the season or whatever into the context of your daily life. You realize that the Fourth of July is tomorrow and you kind of just go with it. Maybe pick up some extra beer (if you’re Dean) or look up local events (if you’re Sam), or offer up a shit ton of critiques (if you’re Cas), or grumble and bitch slightly (if you’re Bobby). What you don’t do, because you’re not really thinking about it, is realize that the Fourth of July involves fireworks, or, rather, you do because one of your fondest memories is of setting off fireworks as a kid and because Sam had found out that in addition to the town parade (no way are they submitting Cas to the crowds there, ‘forget, Cas,’ Sam had quipped ‘we’re not subjecting those people to you.’) there will be fireworks locally too. Fireworks are awesome, they’re a normal civilian thing…only no one really put two and two together and realized that fireworks might be a trigger for Cas. It’s not technically anyone’s fault, they haven’t had lightning storms since Cas fell and they haven’t had fireworks and there’s no basis for comparison…

There’s no basis for comparison until they’re on the porch—Dean and Bobby with beers, Cas and Sam with glasses of iced tea—and someone, a fucking stupid idiot local, sets off a firework somewhere in town. It’s all silver sparkles and a loud crack and Cas just freezes. Every muscle in his body goes rigid. Dean feels him tense, the exact moment, like there’s some kind of fucking electric charge coming off him. Cas’ hand clenches so tightly that the glass in his hand shatters. Sam and Bobby both turn, but Dean is on his feet moving towards Cas, whose body is fucking vibrating like a bow string, pulled tight, pulse visibly jumping in his throat, pupils blown wide, eyes fixed on a distant point, unseeing, a fine sheen of sweet across his forehead, breathing shallow and rapid.

“Boy,” Bobby cautions gruffly, and Dean doesn’t know if it’s him or Cas that he’s speaking to, could be Sam for all he knows.

Dean holds his palms up, unthreatening. 

“Cas,” he tries.

Sam walks up next to him, eyes fixed on Cas’ form, “Castiel,” he offers.

Cas tilts his head just slightly towards the noise and Dean has the a foolish moment of thinking that they’re gonna get off easy with this one, he reaches a hand out tentatively towards Cas. That’s when another fucking dick sets off a firework. Red this time. Louder than the first. The explosion splits the night, reverberates. Dean has a split second this think, well shit, and promise himself that he will track down that damn asshole and skin the bastard for this. But that’s all he has time for because Cas shifts suddenly, grace and fluid motion, fucking warrior of god shit, and, Dean, Dean is the closest. It’s only years of instinct that have him flinching back to avoid a sharp shard of glass slashing across his abdomen. 

Cas crouches back in a fighting stance, face blank and way, way too much like a heavenly soldier. It’s fucking scary as hell, and damn near alien after the past month, the past year. Dean’s more upset about that, than the near disembowelment. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam pulls Dean back by his shoulder when Dean attempts to get closer to Cas. 

Dean glares. The two brothers might have gotten into a fistfight then and there if not for Bobby, who shoves between them purposefully. 

“Castiel,” he shouts, sharp and loud, and then something else that, fuck if Dean knows what the hell that was. Castiel turns still zoned out to Bobby at the sound, face furrowing. Bobby repeats the phrase again, louder. Sam looks just as confused. Dean is about to intervene, but then Bobby throws a pitcher of iced tea at Cas’ face. Cas sputters and shakes his head, blinking, confused. He looks at his bloody hands, the shard of glass, and he drops it. It clatters against the porch. Bobby says something in the guttural lingo, and Cas focuses, he responds in kind, more easily. Dean realizes somewhat distantly that Bobby has apparently learned how to speak angel. 

Bobby puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, and Cas flinches so sharply that he hits his elbow with a resounding crack against the railing. Bobby pulls back immediately, holds his hands aloft, and says something else, watching as Cas struggles to find his balance. Cas stares at Dean and Sam like he’s never seen them before and then averts his eyes, ducks his head, clearly upset and embarrassed. Well, fuck. 

“You idjits gonna stand there gawking or you gonna help me get him inside before another fucker sets off a damn sparkler.” 

Dean and Sam share a glance before scurrying in his wake. 

“You got a place without windows in this joint?”

The ‘study’ which is slowly being turned into an armory, is windowless, and it’s on the first floor, so they take Cas there. He doesn’t respond when they ask what he wants or needs. Bobby takes complete control of the situation. He sends Sam to the kitchen to make tea and get some ice. Dean is ordered to get blankets and bandages. “And some damn chairs,” he snaps. Sam looks like he’s walked into a wall. Dean glowers, torn between his desire to be helpful and his total reticence to leave Cas, but Bobby’s glare, and Sam’s hand yanking the collar of his shirt force him into action. 

Bobby stitches Cas’ palm. Cas doesn’t even flinch. He stares blankly. Bobby keeps talking to him though, quiet and slow, but clear. Cas won’t look at any of them. The last time Dean experienced anything resembling this sensation in his chest, he was being mauled by a Wendigo. He would take the monster over this any day. Sam frets, he sits damn close to Cas the whole time. He’d probably offer to hold Cas’ hand if he thought Cas would accept it. Dean is standing, arms crossed, fucking glaring at Bobby and the door. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until Sam’s kind and supportive face morphs into a ‘knock it the fuck off’ glare. Dean’s scowl fades, but he remains standing and tense. Since when did Bobby, who is, FYI, fucking fixing Cas, a damn threat? Since he fucking took your place, an insidious voice whispers. Dean doesn’t want to even go there. So he decidedly doesn’t. 

The doors and walls muffle the fireworks. When Cas is bandaged up, Bobby gives him ice for his palm. Sam offers him tea. Cas shakes his head at both, but Bobby forces the ice. Cas doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He still has tea on his face and in his hair, staining his shirt. Sam speaks gently. Mostly they just sit, like they’re in a foxhole. Dean feels the rising panic, the sense of complete failure, the need to hit something, the need to run. It’s a burning bile in the back of his throat, he swallows it down. He can’t freak out. He promised he wouldn’t. 

They give Cas a moment alone. While in exile, they confer briefly. Cas might have to camp out down here for a few nights. “You can have my bed, Bobby,” Dean offers, his voice dark and deep, “I’ll stay here with Cas.”

Sam looks only slightly dubious, opens his mouth, maybe to protest, but snaps it shut, shakes his head, clasps Dean on the shoulder and heads upstairs. Bobby evaluates him with a look and a sharp nod. Approval or resignation, Dean can’t read it. 

He goes back into the darkened study. They’d only been gone for ten minutes tops, but Cas has changed his position. He’s hiding in the farthest corner, knees pulled up to his chest, head bowed. Dean walks over and sits next to him, his joints creak. 

They stay like that for a while. Dean can still feel the tension, knife bright and sharp between them, rising off of Cas’ skin. 

“I don’t know what Bobby said to you,” he admits, “but it wasn’t your fault. What happened out there.”

“I very nearly hurt you, Dean,” Cas whispers, refusing to look at him. 

“Don’t underestimate my reflexes,” Dean snorts, but the attempt at flippancy fails utterly. 

Cas still won’t look at him.

Dean tries again, more forcefully, “You didn’t, Cas.”

“I could have.”

“You always could have.” Because that’s what happens when you’re an epic, infinity old celestial being. Cas actually has beaten the ever-loving shit out of Dean, but they don’t talk about that, “It was an accident, Cas, it wasn’t you. No harm, no foul.”

“You have a deplorable irreverence for your own life.”

“Yesterday’s news, man.”

He’s really not helping. Clearly. Because Cas still won’t look at him, and Cas always looks at him, intensely, extensively, creepily. He’s got that freaky Occulemency thing going on, except how, really, he only does that with Dean. It used to make Dean uncomfortable to the point that he wanted to climb out of his skin because Cas looked at him with freaky x-ray eyes and it felt like he could actually see straight inside of him; past all the bullshit that makes up ninety nine percent of his personality, and maybe found something there that was worth it. Cas never looks away, and, now, of all fucking things, Dean wants him to look. He fucking misses it. 

Dean tries to push his feelings on the issue aside. It’s selfish and stupid and he’s got more important things to worry about, but he’s not sure what he ought to say. He scoots incrementally closer to Cas under the guise of getting more comfortable. If he moves another inch they’ll be brushing shoulders, which he desperately fucking wants to do. He wants to touch Cas, make sure that he’s okay, use his hands to take away the guilt and the pain, show him that he’s here and he’s not leaving and he’s not mad at all. Dean’s always been better with his hands than his words, but now they rest in his own lap, fucking useless and not anything near what Cas needs. He needs to suck it up...and sit on his hands if necessary.

“Seriously, Cas, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

No response, just the slightest twitch of his shoulders and tensing of the muscles that shape his spine. If Cas still had his wings, Dean’s pretty sure, they’d be curled protectively around him. The thought twists the knife already lodged in his gut, but not as badly as the realization that, if he could, Cas would be flying away, as far away from this whole damn mess as he could, and Dean, well, Dean wouldn’t blame him. 

“Cas—” he persists, his voice breaking over the syllable.

“Just stop, Dean,” Cas almost snarls, “Leave.”

That’s Cas’ serious voice, and Dean falls silent, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t leave. He stays. The pressure between them just builds.

“Go,” Cas repeats, still hiding his face.

“Not gonna happen,” Dean replies.

“Get out, Dean.” Cas hisses, fire and brimstone and fucking wrath in his voice.

“No,” he refuses, point blank.

Cas looks up scowling, glaring, but there’s something off about it. There’s something broken in his expression and there’s a respondent ache somewhere in Dean’s ribcage.

“Please,” Cas pleads, brow furrows and eyes glaring even with the tears standing in them.

Dean scoots closer then, maneuvers so that he’s directly in front of Cas and he leans forward catching Cas glare, watching as moisture falls from his eyes. 

“I am not going anywhere, Cas,” he growls out the promise, “I’m staying right here. With you.”

Cas jaw works and his nostrils flare and he glowers at Dean with the fury of a thousand fucking suns, but his voice, it’s a shattered rasp when he says, “Please, Dean, just…please.”

“No,” and then Dean he just throws caution to the fucking winds, because everything else be damned and he reaches forward and lays and tentative hand on Cas arm. Cas shudders, and then just, bucks forward, choking on a sob, and that’s fucking it. Dean moves with no hesitation, like it’s a natural extension of his body, like he’s magnetized, and he wraps Cas in his arms, like he’s wanted to for fucking weeks. He pulls him close, flush against his chest, so that Cas’ face is pressed into Dean’s neck and his shoulders are beneath Dean’s palms and Dean can feel his ragged breaths and his tears and his muscles as he struggles to get away.

“No,” Dean says, holding Cas tightly to him, “I am not going to fucking leave you, Cas, and nothing about this is your fault. And I am going to fucking stay here until you realize that.”

“Dean,” Cas rasps on a strangled sob.

Dean bites his lip and presses his face into the sticky mess of Cas’ hair and places a soothing hand on the exposed skin above his shirt collar, rubbing his thumb against the nape of his neck, and holding as tightly as he dares to Cas’ shaking torso. 

“I’m right here, Cas,” he whispers, promises, “Right here.”

And all the fight goes out of Cas in a rush and he just folds into Dean and he cries. He cries broken fucking sobs, muffled into the cotton of Dean’s shirt and the muscles of his chest and the pulse-beat of his neck. Dean holds him through it all, holds him until the sobs even out. He uses his sleeve to wipe at the wetness of Cas’ face; he smiles weakly when Cas blinks at him in embarrassment and confusion and an unmistakable fear that he’s overstepped some invisible line, done something to chase Dean away. 

“I’m not leaving,” Dean reminds him, with a half-smile and the most sincere expression in his eyes that he’s ever had. Cas still looks unsure and Dean frames Cas’ face with his palm, brushes his thumb against the shadowed, still dampened skin beneath Cas’ eyes, and more than anything he wants to close the distance between them, press his mouth to Cas’, and kiss away the pain, but he can’t, so he doesn’t. He ruffles Cas’ hair instead, and when he moves to let go, Cas reaches out, quick as lightning with his good hand to latch onto Dean’s wrist. Desperation stands in his eyes. Naked and raw.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” Dean soothes, gruff, and so far beyond the point of caring what a fucking sissy he is or how fucking sappy that is because this is fucking him and Cas and that’s all that fucking matters.

Dean builds a nest out of the blankets and pillows that they brought down earlier, and Cas watches with wide, wounded eyes. When he’s finished, he walks over, crouches down, and offers his hand to Cas, who takes it, after a moment’s hesitation, and allows Dean to pull him to his feet and lead him over to the makeshift bed on the floor. 

“It’s not gonna be as comfy as your bed,” Dean says, and Cas settles, still silently watching, “but it’ll be quiet.”

He starts to move away but Cas catches his wrist again, vice like, and pulls Dean down beside him. Dean refuses to listen to the voice that’s screaming something about Cas pulling Dean into his bed and the warmth flooding through his whole body at the fact that Cas is reaching for him, that Cas, for some fucking insane reason, wants him. He takes that feeling and locks it down firmly in a box in the very farthest corner of his brain because no, not now, not thinking about it. 

“You said you wouldn’t leave,” and, wow, Cas voice is about twenty times raspier and deeper than usual, and Dean so does not think about the direct pull that has to his gut. 

“I was just gonna crash in one of the chairs, I’ll—” Cas blinks, and looks away for a moment, rejected, and, fucking hell, is Sammy giving him private lessons or some shit? Cas looks back up, eyes dark and hooded and hot as fuck, so, yeah, no, he didn’t learn that from Sam. He sighs, forces himself to think of the process to reassemble a car engine, “Move over.”

He curls towards Cas like a parenthesis. Cas doesn’t take his hand from Dean’s wrist. Dean watches him, and he only hesitates a minute before he reaches out. He stops and waits for permission, a glance at Cas’ face, the tiniest of nods, before he runs his fingers through Cas’ hair. It gets messier with each stroke, but Dean continues his ministrations in the dark, where Cas is all lines and shadows, until his breathing evens out and he falls asleep, exhausted. Dean watches him still, continues the gentle brush, trails his thumb softly across Cas temple. Cas, fucking nuzzles into the touch, the constant frown on his face softens for just a moment, and Dean, pulled towards Cas’ warmth, to his breath, shifts closer, his last conscious thought is that nothing has ever felt so right, before he drifts off with his hand against Cas’ side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Welcome to the newest chapter. Again, I must apologize for the delay. I won't bore you with the details, but things have been crazy for me lately. I'm absolutely not abandoning this story, the updates will just be slow for a while. That being said, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing and following this story. You guys mean the world to me and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Much love!


	15. You Can See when You're Wrong, You Know, You Can't Always See When You're Right

Dean is warm and comfortable despite the fact that he’s lying on a hardwood floor, cushioned only by a blanket and some pillows. In the hazy space between dreams and waking, he recognizes that his comfort has nothing to do with his surroundings and everything to do with his sleeping companion. He cracks open his eyes, still gritty with sleep, to see the figure lying beside him. 

Cas is curled into a tight ball, tousled head tucked towards Dean’s clavicle, the tips of his hair brushing gently against his chin when he inhales. He’s holding Dean’s hand tightly to his chest, such that Dean can feel the steady beating of Cas’ heart against his knuckles. Dean himself is bowed protectively towards the angel, head inclined towards Cas’ crown. His arm is wrapped around Cas, his fingers splayed against his ribs, rising and falling with every breath. Cas’ injured palm rests in the scant space that remains between them, but even that reaches towards Dean. 

There’s a certain sense of timelessness in the dark cocoon of the room, quiet and still save for the cadence of their breathing and the gentle settling of the house. In the shadows and the near silence, Dean can see Cas’ dark lashes fanned against his cheek, tanned from time spend in the sun, the pink bow of his lip, the soft lines that frame his mouth and eyes and will one day turn to wrinkles. There is the slightest furrow between his brows, marring his otherwise peaceful countenance, and the mark troubles Dean on an almost fundamental level. It causes an ache deep in his chest that Cas should be having anything but peaceful rest and pleasant dreams. 

There is something in the somnolent air between them, the cosseted night (or perhaps morning) that allows Dean to lean forward, when he otherwise, at any other time, would not, to place his lips against the furrow in Cas’ forehead. He doesn’t even question the gesture. Doesn’t think on what it means, ignores the distant part of himself that would be (and is deeply) appalled by his foolish impulsiveness. Instead he closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Cas’, and sighs. 

Cas’ hair is alternatively matted and spiked, sticky and stiff still from the iced tea that Bobby had used to rouse him from his PTSD flashback, but even so, underneath all that, there’s a scent that is purely Cas, and so Dean breathes deeply, relishing their closeness, dropping the walls and barriers that he’s always so careful to maintain. He wants to stay like this, just like this, forever. It’s been a long time since he allowed himself the pleasure (or agony) of wanting something so selfishly, purely for himself, and it’s difficult, with his mind muddied by sleep, to remember right now exactly why it is that he can’t have Cas. He moves infinitesimally closer, nose damn near burrowed in Cas’ hair. He pulls Cas nearer, and Cas, well, he goes, allows himself to be led by the guiding press of Dean’s fingers. He stirs just slightly, fucking nuzzling back against Dean, and Dean reciprocates, running his hand down the length of Cas’ spine to rest on his hip. 

Dean’s eyes are heavy, weighted and warm. He hears Cas hum slightly, and his mouth quirks upwards. Dean places his lips against his hair. Cas shifts and he blinks up a Dean with squint tinged with sleep, drowsy and puzzled. 

“Dean?” Cas whispers, voice broken and raw.

Dean responds by reaching out his hand, carding his fingers through Cas’ matted hair. He brushes his thumb against Cas’ cheekbone, traces the curve of his cheek, cups his jaw. Cas’ eyes are wider now. He stills fundamentally, tense; alertness resonates from his skin. 

“S’okay, Cas,” he murmurs soothingly, “go back t’sleep.”

Cas hesitates, stares, bites his lip. Dean, still on impulse, still foolish, still sleepy, notices that the frown line is back on Cas’ face, and it seems that the only logical thing to do is lean forward and place his mouth against the mark, to pull back and press his thumb gently against the ghostly imprint of his lips, smooth away Cas’ frown. 

Cas makes a strange sort of “Oh,” sound. And Dean huffs a laugh, grins lazily. 

“Go back to sleep, Cas, s’early.”

And this time, Cas listens—that’s a first, Dean thinks—slowly, languorously, he snuggles closer to Dean, who wraps his arms protectively around him, mindful of his injuries. His last thought before he drifts off—with the feel of Cas under his palms and the smell of him in his nose and the warmth of him everywhere, just Cas—is how right this feels. 

The next time that Dean wakes, Bobby is looming over him, which, Jesus fuck, is fucking terrifying, like a goddamn looming grizzly bear. The fact that he’s been caught red handed fucking cuddling with Cas might also have something to do with his startled flail when he realizes that Bobby is standing above them. Cas jolts awake and nearly takes out the family jewels with an instinctive kick that Dean narrowly avoids. 

“Jesus, Bobby,” Dean curses, voice hushed, “What the hell?” 

Bobby is in silhouette, so Dean cannot interpret his expression, but there is definitely something annoyed and a little smug about his stance. 

“Breakfast is on the table if you two sleepin’ beauties are ready to get up,” he snarks.

Cas groans and presses his face into his pillow, also the three other pillows that he’s unceremoniously hogged all night. He tugs the blanket out of Dean’s hands, leaving him totally exposed. And that’s just fucking great. Traitor. The things you learn about a guy. Dean shakes his head and watches bemusedly as Cas pulls the blanket up until only his mussed hair is visible. 

Bobby doesn’t even bother turning his laugh into a cough; Dean shoots him a glare that bounces right off. He’s torn between burrowing back under the covers next to Cas and bolting to the nearest bar and/or bottle of whiskey. The third option, which smells like waffles and bacon is also a tantalizing escape route. 

“Time’s it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger, resigned to consciousness. 

“Almost eleven,” Bobby replies (Dean can feel the raised eyebrows). 

Cas mutters something unintelligible, but Dean would lay money that Cas just told Bobby to go fuck himself or the Enochian equivalent at least, which somehow makes everything better and worse simultaneously. Dean is torn between laughing hysterically and smothering himself with a pillow. This is what his life has come to, god help him. 

Bobby chooses to ignore Cas’ comments apparently, “Your brother made waffles…”

“Hmph.”

“Didn’t know that damn idjit could cook. Surprised he didn’t burn the place down,” he offers wryly, “There’s coffee,” he takes a sip from the mug in his hand, “Ain’t half bad either.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbles, struggling to his feet with a discernible grimace. He’s clearly getting too old to sleep on the floor. The hunting life keeps you in great shape, but it also wracks up a bill that apparently gets handed to you in the form of stiff joints and aching bones in your early thirties. He rubs his neck. 

“You comin’, Cas?” Bobby queries.

Cas mumbles indecipherably, whether from language barriers or feathered pillows is anyone’s guess. 

“Uh, I think he needs a minute,” Dean responds on his behalf.

“Well hurry up. Early bird gets the grub.”

“All right, Mr. Rogers.”

Cas will get up soon; Dean knows for a fact that he happens to really like waffles. 

When Dean stumbles into the kitchen, Sam is bustling around the counter. Bobby takes his place at the table, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a sip of his coffee. Dean suspects that it’s heavily laced with whiskey, and he wonders how quickly he can get himself the same. He needs it this morning. He’s about ninety five percent positive that he kissed Cas sometime around three in the morning. And, though it was definitely not a kiss that involved tongue, or even lip on lip contact, it was also not the sort of kiss that Dean would consider ‘friendly.’ It was the type of kiss he would consider ‘intimate’ (he grimaces at his own word choice, and the fact that Sam is apparently infiltrating his brain). He contemplates, as he pours coffee and alcohol into his mug (before Bobby snatches the bottle away, the fucking hypocrite), how much he can rely on Cas’ lack of human know-how to play it off as unimportant, insignificant, or meaningless. He also wonders, with some degree of nausea, how much Cas will freak out, or, you know, how close to freaking out he himself is. That last bit, he realizes, is about two seconds away from happening and the former is a fifty-fifty shot. 

He takes a deep fortifying breath, followed by a deep fortifying sip, and he settles next to Bobby at the table, popping the crispiest piece of bacon into his mouth and chewing with a degree of gusto that he doesn’t actually feel. 

“Mornin’ Sammy,” he says, mouth full. 

“Hard to get out of bed?” He can hear the smugness. He hates Sam a little bit.

“Goin’ soft in your old age boy,” Bobby affirms, with a smirk, “Damn near slept the day away.” 

Dean shrugs and tries to ignore the fact that his family is comprised of terrible, unfeeling dicks, “Just catching up on my beauty sleep.”

“You need it,” Sam retorts from the counter, and Dean chucks a napkin at his head. He walked right into that one.

“Bitch.”

“Was Cas okay last night?” That’s a too innocent question if ever he’s head one. He’s not sure if he’s reading too much into this. He’s becoming paranoid. His palms are sweating, his leg won’t sit still, keeps bouncing under the table. He sputters his sip of coffee, almost chokes. 

Dean hesitates for the barest moment, mouth open, poised to reveal the latest horrific nightmare story, but…there hadn’t been one. Not a single damn dream, or, at least, none that had Cas screaming bloody murder in the dead of night. His jaw snaps shut and he blinks in confusion. He has the strangest sensation, as if Sam hit him in the face with the hot waffle iron. He opens his mouth again, forcibly relaxes his knuckles from where they’re clutching his mug, and allows the strange white noise in his brain to cover the majority of the combined elation and panic that is threatening to overtake him. This is the first time that Cas has slept the night through without nightmares. It’s the first night that Dean’s spent the whole night through with him, fucking cuddling. He’s not an idiot, he’s not an optimist, but he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence, and he’s not sure if that makes it better or worse or what the fuck it even means. 

“Uh, actually, yeah,” he replies, wondering if his voice sounds strange, “slept like a baby.”

“Huh,” Bobby grouches under his breath, “Wonder why?” he pauses, and Dean swears it’s for dramatic effect. What the fuck even with these assholes? He hates everyone, including himself, “You and birdbrain looked pretty comfy this morning” 

Sam can’t fully stifle a laugh, so he clears his throat, changing the subject before Dean can intercede with a sharp, ‘What the hell?!’ 

“That’s really great,” he snorts, “Really great.” Sam is clearly trying hard to find a balance between his genuine happiness for Cas and his nascent desire to mock Dean. Bobby is not even trying to suppress the latter and definitely gives Dean a look that reads loud and clear that he thinks they’re both morons. Dean is torn between: “that’s not fair” and “oh my god, I am such a fucking moron.”

Just then, Cas stumbles into the kitchen. The circles under his eyes are less pronounced, but his hair is crazier than ever. He waves vaguely at the greetings cast his way and drops into a seat after he gets his coffee. Dean and he make eye contact for a split second. Cas blushes but maintains his gaze; Dean immediately averts his eyes and clears his throat. Sam ‘accidentally’ elbows him as he sets a plate of waffles on the table, and Bobby mutters something that sounds remarkably like ‘idjits’ before spearing the first waffle off of the stack. 

Cas is really methodical about his waffles. He fills each individual square with exactly enough syrup before moving on to the next. Dean slathers his in butter and syrup, cutting them into uneven chunks, shoveling them into his mouth, and sliding his bacon through the gooey runoff. Sam has always looked mildly disgusted by this, which has always encouraged Dean still farther in his eschewal of table manners as such. Today is no different, and Sam carries on most of the breakfast conversation with Bobby’s help. Dean is focused primarily on heaping food into his mouth (to distract himself), and avoiding Cas’ stare. Cas is quiet and precise as he consumes his own breakfast. 

“It’s nice not to be woken by the damn phone,” Bobby says, over his coffee.

“I bet,” Dean responds, mouth full, grateful for the diversion.

“Who’s covering for you?” Sam frowns, sipping his juice damn near daintily, as if seeking to demonstrate the appropriate way to behave at table. Dean spares him a snort of derision, and then turns back to Bobby. It’s hard to imagine being on a hunt and not having him for back-up when the lore or the monsters get particularly dicey. They’ve come to rely on him as a constant resource…and they’re the best, so the other poor shmucks must be drowning without him.

Bobby snorts slightly, “Garth Fitzgerald.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s a good kid,” Bobby replies gruffly, “Used to be a dentist.”

“Well that’s weird,” Dean is quite certain, having only rarely visited dentists in his life, that they are all sadistic. That being said, they’d probably make the transition to hunter fairly easily—all those drills… 

Bobby continues, “Hopefully, the idjit doesn’t screw anything up too much. He means well, but sometimes, I swear, he doesn’t have the good sense god gave a flea. Probably gonna have more to clean up when I get back than when I left.”

Sam and Dean share a look. Bobby put everything on hold just to come and visit them. Lives literally might hang in the balance because of his sabbatical. The gesture is not unappreciated, and somehow they’re both tremendously humbled and unsure of what exactly to say. 

“Well that’s just—”

“Shut up.” 

They laugh awkwardly and move on to other subjects.

When they finish eating, Sam dashes off almost immediately to find something in the library. Bobby offers to check out Cas’ stitches. Dean heads to his room and gets dressed. Doing his best not to think about Cas, or the kiss, or the way they had slept together last night. He shucks off his jeans and t-shirt, exchanging them for cleaner jeans and a new t-shirt. He does his level best not to think about anything while he’s lacing his boots and half jogs down the stairs. It’s only when he comes to a stop in the kitchen, where Sam is washing dishes and Cas and Bobby are conspicuously absent, that he lets his thoughts clarify and none of them are good.

“Where is everyone?” he demands. 

Sam stills briefly. He’s wearing his tense and uncomfortable shoulders. 

“Sam,” he warns.

“They went out.”

“Out where?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know.”

Dean is nonplussed.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” For a crazy moment, all he can imagine is Bobby’s arsenal, and his heart stops. 

Sam sighs heavily and turns around, dish and sponge still in hand, “Relax, Dean, it’s not like Bobby’s gonna leave Cas’ corpse on the side of the road somewhere. It’s Bobby.”

Dean glares fiercely, the image a little too sharp 

“Jesus, Dean, Bobby’s not gonna leave Cas’ corpse on the side of the road somewhere,” Sam is almost smiling, and it so, so not the time, “You know what I think?”

“I really don’t care.”

“I think that you’re scared he’s gonna threaten Cas over your precious virtue. Hate to break it to you, but the ship’s kinda sailed on that one, big brother.”

Dean’s jaw drops, then snaps shut and clenches. He may be turning a lovely shade of magenta. 

“That’s not—you fucking—god damn it, Sam.”

Sam bites his lip, but can’t contain his own triumphant smile. 

“What did happen last night?” His tone is teasing, but Dean is spectacularly un-amused.

“None of your damn business,” he snaps, “Where did they go?”

Sam makes a placating gesture, “I really don’t know. Bobby just wanted to talk to him. They’ll be back.”

Dean glares at Sam because, clearly, this whole thing is his fault, and he storms out of the kitchen and across the lawn to the garage. 

Tinkering is therapeutic, Dean has always known this; so is art, which is kind of a surprise for him. The garage is his space, it’s a shed really, and he comes out here to work on his Baby, but also to work on his projects. It helps him to calm down and it grounds him. Cas says it’s a meditative practice. Sam knows Dean needs to be doing something always. There’s an order for a crib, and Dean is laying as many protective sigils into it as he can. The trick is organizing them into a design such that the civilians don’t realize they’ve got mumbo-jumbo set into their handcrafted artisanal work. It takes a lot of concentration to mark them correctly into the proper arrangement and design, so it’s really the perfect thing to do right now, when thinking about last night, or right now, or how much he hates Sam are really not available to him. He doesn’t want to deal, so he doesn’t, and, oh, hey, in the process he’s being productive...saving babies. The anti-fire sigils are particularly numerous on any and all things that relate to children. It’s a special policy of Dean’s in his new line of work. 

An hour ticks by, then two. He gets lost in his craft. When hour three rolls around, Bobby and Cas roll up the drive. Dean is remarkably relieved that they’re both alive. 

“Hey, Cas,” he calls, but Cas either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t want to talk. He avoids Dean’s gaze, goes inside, and closes the door behind him with something like finality. 

Dean rounds with his jaw clenched, “What the hell, Bobby?”

The older man shrugs, “Give him time,” is all he says. 

“What the hell did you talk about?” 

“That’s for Cas to tell you if and when he’s ready,” the shade of his trucker cap makes it difficult to read his expression, but Dean knows he’s not getting any more out of Bobby. He stalks back to the shed.

He’s too distracted to work on the crib anymore. He feels an overwhelming desire to throw it against the wall, but he knows that if he follows through on that he will regret it. It’s not the damn crib’s fault, and Dean’s spent hours working on the fucking thing. Sam would likely consider his self-restraint a sign of emotional growth. Dean just finds it fucking frustrating. 

He moves to Baby instead. Baby understands. She’s sleek and shining, almost lethargic. She hasn’t been getting a lot of road time lately. 

“Well, you deserve a vacation,” he mutters, lifting the hood. He turns on the radio, and fiddles with the engine. It’s soothing. Communing with his baby brings him some measure of peace, gets his mind off of things that he would really rather not think about. He spends the afternoon working on her. 

When he finally heads back to the house, he feels less edgy. The sun is setting and it’s quiet. Too quiet. Bobby is napping in the living room. He seems to have claimed the blue armchair as his own. His hat is tilted down over his face and he’s snoring. Dean knows that if he gets too close to the peaceful visage, he’ll likely wind up with a broken nose and a knife in his gut, so he does the sensible thing (yet again: twice in one day…a new record. He’d pat himself on the back if not for his colossal stupidity last night) and gives him a wide berth.

Sam is in the kitchen, brooding. His face is contemplative, distracted. He’s gonna give himself wrinkles if he doesn’t ease up on the frowning. 

“What’s with the long face, Sasquatch?”

Sam looks up at him with a glare, but doesn’t answer.

“Seriously, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Sam answers too quickly.

“Sounds like it,” Dean hops up on the counter.

Sam sighs like the goddamn big bad wolf, “I had a talk with Bobby.”

Dean snorts, “I hear that’s goin’ around.”

Sam glances derisively at him, “Cas is in his room, by the way.”

Dean’s eyes dart towards the stairs, but then he focuses again on his brother, “You’re not getting off that easy. What’d the old man say that’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Bite me, Dean.”

“Touchy.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam positively glowers, looks a lot like he did at sixteen after a fight with John about moving for a hunt, changing schools mid-semester, missing his Mathlete tournament. It bodes ill as far as Dean is concerned, “he’s already gotten to me and Cas, just wait till it’s your turn,”

“Fuck.” He hadn’t thought of that…If Cas and Sam got the third degree (he shudders) what the hell is in store for him?

“Exactly,” Sam tilts his beer in sardonic salute, “good luck.”

Dean pushes off of the counter and propels himself out of the room with a new weight on his shoulders, trepidation sitting heavy in his bones. The door of Cas’ room is cracked, the man himself sitting on the floor. He’s meditating: straight spine, palms open on his knees, eyes closed. Dean can’t tell whether he looks peaceful or not, and he exhales heavily. He’s not going to interrupt however much he might want to. He turns away and droops back down the stairs, disappointed, annoyed, and vaguely relieved as well; wipes sweaty palms on his jeans as he stalks away. 

The afternoon passes without incident. Cas is holed away in his room for all of it. Sam sulks. Bobby wakes from his nap and sorts through some of the curse boxes in the basement. Dean hides out in the garage; he fiddles around with the crib some more, but his heart’s not in it and he’s not exceptionally productive; easily distracted, mind circling in aimless, stressful circles that make him stop and mutter, ‘son of a bitch,’ at random, but frequent, intervals. 

They order pizza for dinner since no one is in the mood to cook. Cas refuses to speak or make eye contact with anyone and scurries off to the armory immediately afterwards, shutting the door behind him. It’s vaguely catlike, and therefore disturbing. Dean wants to chase after him; he also wants to slam his face into a brick wall. The latter might even be less painful. Sam offers to clean up. There’s not much of it to do. They’d used paper plates, but Sam scrubs the few dishes they did use with something like righteous indignation, and Dean figures it’s best to just leave him to it. If the OCD freak out helps settle the kid, he’s all for it. 

The house is eerily quiet, and Dean figures he might as well just succumb to the inevitable. He takes two beers out to the porch and waits. It doesn’t take long for Bobby to come out and join him. He offers the older man the second brew without turning to look at him. Bobby pops the cap and sits beside him. 

“Ain’t you a boy scout.”

“Well, they say no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, just tryin’ to prove them wrong.”

Bobby chuckles, “You think this is an Inquisition?”

“Just tryin’ to be prepared.”

“Well, damn, I left my manacles back home.”

Dean smiles, wry and twisted, tries not to think of the manacles he’d felt, seen, and used in during his extended stay in hell, swigs his beer to chase away the images. They sit in silence. It’s a nice night. The sun is setting and the lawn is cast in golds and oranges; the trees the line the property turning into shadows and the moon starting to crest. 

“Well,” Dean says after a while, when the silence gets too loaded and he begins to feel jittery with it, “let it out.”

Bobby raises his brows. 

“The talk,” Dean replies, “Hit me, I’m ready.”

“Boy, you want me to give you a talkin’ to?” Bobby looks something like incredulous, suspicious, and just a little bit disappointed.

Dean shrugs. Honestly, he’s not sure. Hearing what Bobby has to say will probably hurt like a bitch. There’s a vaguely masochistic part of him, though, that wants the old man to tear him to shreds. Might feel good, purifying even. God knows there’s enough for him to be reamed about. 

“Am I gonna tell you anything you don’t already know?” Bobby sighs gruff, exasperated. 

Dean glances over at him, and Bobby shakes his head.

“Way I hear it,” he continues, “Sam damn near chewed your ear off couple times over ‘bout you bein’ a damned fool—”

Dean winces. Did Sam bitch to Bobby? Did Cas? Jesus fucking shit. 

“—and you been readin’ yourself the riot act, actin’ like an idiot to prove it—”

“—well don’t pussy foot around, Bobby—”

“—I don’t mean to,” Bobby reminds him, “You said you were ready for the Inquisition.”

“I lied.”

Bobby snorts.

“Son,” he continues more gently, “I’d give you a talkin’ to if I thought I would say somethin’ you ain’t heard already.”

“I ran out on them,” Dean confesses, stiltedly, without looking towards Bobby. He can’t meet the old man’s eyes. 

“And it was a damn stupid thing to do,” Bobby confirms.

Dean nods, rueful and resigned. 

“You came back, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but—” Yeah, but it was a near thing; yeah, but I still want to run some days; yeah, but I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing; yeah, but what if next time I don’t come back; don’t come to my senses?

“You gonna do it again?”

Dean answers virulently, without question, almost bites out the word “No.” His denial is strong and quick, too quick, but the truth is, he doesn’t know the answer, not really. He doesn’t mean to run, doesn’t want to, but…he doubts himself. What if he fucks up again? It wouldn’t exactly be the first time. He remembers his father driving away, leaving him and Sam behind, not knowing when or how or even if he would come back. He doesn’t want to do that—couldn’t bear doing that to Sam or Cas, feels sick at the thought. 

“Son, you made a damn mistake,” Bobby interrupts his thoughts, perhaps sensing their direction, “you ain’t the first and you won’t be the last. Way I hear it, you been beatin’ yourself up about it plenty.”

Not enough, as far as Dean is concerned.

“You’ve been tryin’ to make up for it and you’re doin’ good.”

Dean snorts disbelievingly and shoots Bobby a sharp, baleful stare, cocks his eyebrow, “You sure that’s your first beer?”

“Ha ha.”

Dean shakes his head.

“Boy, anybody ever told you that you got a self-punishing streak that a Catholic saint’d be jealous of?”

Dean huffs, “You mighta once or twice”

“You gotta stop this shit,” Bobby sounds less patient, “You ain’t hiding out in Nevada, you didn’t run for the border, I don’t see you sipping margaritas in Fiji.”

“Doesn’t mean that I didn’t think of it.”

“Doesn’t make you guilty either,” Bobby continues, “You set up a house here, you’re lookin’ after your brother and your angel. You’re looking out for yourself more’n you have in a long damn time. You got a job; helpin’ people, doin’ somethin’ you like, that you’re good at…Boy, you’re doin’ good for yourself, so no, I ain’t gonna give you a talkin’ to.”

Dean isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed; maybe both. He doesn’t know what to say to any of that—isn’t sure that he deserves any of the credit that Bobby seems inclined to give him. Cas is a mess, and, no matter what Dean does, he can’t seem to make it better. Sam is edgy, lost in his own world, and he’s taking better care of Dean than the other way around. Dean himself is on the verge of fucking up, running away, or slamming his head into a wall every other day. Bobby’s faith is misplaced at best.

“Do I get a diploma or somethin’?”

“Don’t get cocky,” Bobby retorts, “Just cause you don’t need a talkin’ to today, that don’t mean you won’t be due for one soon enough.”

“Thanks, for that.”

Somehow the pragmatism makes Dean feel slightly less panicked. Bobby will keep him from being an asshole, and there’s something vaguely comforting in the knowledge that he’ll continue to rip Dean a new one if and when it becomes necessary. 

They sit in an easier silence. The sky is full dark now, velvety blue layered with deepest purple with the barest hint of dying red on the horizon. Fireflies blink in and out of sight across the lawn. Dean’s beer is almost gone before either of them speaks again. 

“You and Cas looked awful cuddly this morning.”

“Jesus, Bobby,” Dean rasps, choking slightly. The hairs on his nape rise in slight panic.

“Can I give you some advice, son?”

“Can I stop you?” Dean snarks defensively.

Bobby glowers, not menacingly, but certainly intent.

“You got a rare opportunity here.”

Dean blinks, “Yeah, I know.”

Bobby leans forward, looking at an indeterminate point in the distance. He shakes his head, face shadowed.

“You know, a week before Karen died, we fought hard…”

Bobby rarely speaks about his wife, and Dean is startled, intrigued despite himself, afraid of what’s to come. Nevertheless, when Bobby seems loath to continue, Dean prompts him.

“’Bout what?”

Bobby takes a deep breath, shakes himself out of his contemplation, “She wanted kids, I didn’t—I was afraid I’d end up a sorry drunk bastard like my daddy.”

Dean isn’t sure what to say. 

“Week later, she was dead,” Bobby’s voice is gruffer than Dean’s ever heard it, “I regret that more’n you can imagine. Sometimes I think: what woulda happened if I hadn’t been such a stubborn ass, where we woulda been today; what I’d do if I had the chance to do it over; a fresh start; if I could go back…”

“Jesus, I’m sorry, Bobby,” Dean is at a loss for words. He has his own share of ‘what ifs’, of regrets and sorrows, but he can only imagine what Bobby must feel like. Unbidden, he’s confronted with the image of Cas, lying dead on the side of the road, wings etched in ash, chest still beneath the falling rain. He clenches his jaw against the burn in the back of this throat, and blinks hard.

“I ain’t askin’ for your sympathy, son,” Bobby continues, quiet and firm—there’s a strange sort of understanding in his voice, almost like he can sense Dean’s thoughts, or, at least, it seems so to him, “It’s too late for me to change what’s happened, and I’ll regret that till my dyin’ day,” he pauses, crickets chirp in the night, and Bobby places a warm, steady hand on Dean’s shoulder, “but the world’s different now, Dean. I’m saying you got a rare opportunity here, and I’m askin’ you: what’re you gonna do about it?”

Bobby’s looking at him now, and Dean tries to keep a poker face, struggles to hide the weird clenching in his heart and his stomach. He swallows, but he doesn’t avert his gaze. Bobby’s mouth twists wryly. 

“Think about it, son,” he advises. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder, nods, and heads inside, leaving him alone in the night. 

Dean sits there in silence, turning his empty beer bottle over and over between his hands. He remembers Karen; the shadow of her. Her kind smile and warm eyes, even in death. He remembers Bobby with her: the look on his face when he looked at her, how he would have done anything to protect her. He imagines what it might have been like before everything went wrong…what Bobby would be like if Karen had lived. It seems unfair—not that life, or death, is ever fair—that Bobby won’t have a chance to make things right with her. 

Bobby’s words go around and around in his head. For some strange reason, Karen’s words find their way into the mix. It’s not like she and Dean had chatty tea parties or lengthy heart to hearts, but she said something to him, something about being in love, and it catches and claws within him, working itself into the convoluted knot in his chest, the one with Cas at its epicenter.

Dean breathes out slowly, stares at the shadowy trees that surround the property. The lights from the house leave golden squares against the lawn. The yard’s going to need mowing soon. His thoughts drift to Sam: Sam in this brave new world, Sam in the old one. Sam running towards normal every chance he got. Sam being dragged backwards into the deepest pits of fucked up abnormal shit on hell or on earth. He thinks of Sam and Jess; of Sam and Sarah, Sam and Madison, Sam and fucking Ruby. Sam’s every attempt at happiness, thrown back in his face, bloody, broken, utterly destroyed. 

He bites his lip. Hard. He thinks of Cas: the inscrutable angel, the fallen friend, the person he’s becoming. Cas lying dead on the side of a highway, Cas with tears on his cheeks, screaming in languages older than time, Cas curling towards him, tethered close. Dean closes his eyes against the images, swallows, sighs. It doesn’t stop. Dean sees Cas reading in the sunlight, color blooming across his cheeks, brow furrowed in concentration; Cas’ scars—wings written anew in flesh; his own hands on Cas’ bare skin, Cas shivering beneath his fingertips—he sees Cas trying peaches, and Cas listening to music; Cas meditating, back straight and breathing even. He sees Cas with haunted eyes, Cas with the barest upward tilt to his mouth, Cas with his hair wet from the shower, Cas in Dean’s old Zeppelin tee, sitting on the sofa with his knees pulled protectively to his chest. 

Dean can’t stem the tide of images. Neither can he stop the overwhelming sensations that accompany them—the riotous churning in his heart, in his head: sorrow, want, happiness, fear, awe, worry, and a thousand other things that Dean is unable or afraid to name. 

He blinks his eyes open and gazes up at the sky. The night is illuminated by sporadic bursts of light and accompanied by the distant cracks of premature fireworks. His thoughts continue to swirl in a vicious, confusing, terrifying mess punctuated only by sharp jolts in his abdomen and Bobby’s echoing words. 

Dean sits on the porch for a long time, head bowed, beer bottle long since discarded, hands clasped loosely, as if in prayer. Who he’d pray to, or what he’d pray for, he has no fucking clue. Yet, sitting in a penitent attitude somehow feels right after his confessional, after an absolution that didn’t alleviate anything, that only made him more confused, even guiltier. 

When he finally rises to his feet and goes inside, his ass is numb and the house is nearly silent. They left the lights on in the sitting room, but the rest of the ground floor is draped in shadow. The door to the armory is closed, just the tiniest sliver of light along the edge to indicate that someone might be inside. Dean hesitates outside of it for the barest second before he goes up the stairs. 

Bobby is crashed in Dean’s room; the snoring easily discernible from the hall. At least someone is having a descent night’s sleep, he thinks ruefully. Sam’s room is unsurprisingly empty, and Dean finds his brother in the library. 

He leans against the doorframe, “Burnin’ the midnight oil there, champ?”

Sam hasn’t showered, his hair is a mess, and he’s scruffy. There are dark circles under his eyes, which he rubs with the heels of his hands.

“Just trying to finish this before I go to bed.”

“You look like you’re cramin’ for finals: you know you don’t have a deadline, right?”

Sam scowls at him, but the hostility is undermined by his wide yawn. Dean smirks. The expression comes much easier to him than he feels, but it’s a nice distraction, the act; falling into the role of the cocky, obnoxious big brother. He cocks a questioning eyebrow in the face of Sam’s frown.

“You survived your talk with Bobby,” Sam notes.

Dean shrugs, “No visible scarring.”

Sam shakes his head, and, if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say it was in solidarity. 

“Try to get some sleep, Sam, you look like shit.”

“Yeah, go look in a mirror, asshat.”

Dean takes a shower, pulls on grey sleep pants and his oldest, rattiest Guns N’ Roses t-shirt. His hair is still damp when he walks barefoot down the stairs. 

There’s still a light beneath the armory door. It should be inviting, but, even so, Dean pauses before he pushes against the wood.

Cas is sitting in the far corner of the room. He’s got his legs folded and he’s leaning forward, almost folded in half, reading a book that rests before him on the floor. Dean takes a moment to appreciate Cas’ flexibility.

“Hello, Dean,” he says without looking up.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean hasn’t moved farther than the threshold.

Cas marks his place, and sits back. He’s haloed in the golden glow of the solitary lamp, and the sight is strangely arresting. 

He blinks and tilts his head, and, suddenly, he’s just Cas again. Dean’s not afraid to admit that he likes that better.

“Are you coming in?”

“Uh—yeah, sure.”

Dean walks across the room and drops to the floor across from Cas, who tracks his movements with wide blue eyes, hands folded neatly in his lap—the injured one resting lightly atop the one that is whole. Dean catches sight of the lurid paperback’s cover—Cien anos de soledad. 

“How was your conversation with Bobby?”

“Not sure,” Dean answers honestly, “How about you?”

Cas takes a deep breath (on anyone less dignified, Dean would call that a sigh) and frowns down at his bandaged palm, “It was…enlightening.”

“Enlightening?” 

Cas narrows his eyes in the face of Dean’s skepticism, “It helped to put some things in perspective.”

“Right.”

“Did he not offer you wisdom and insight?”

Bobby’s echoing question, ‘What’re you gonna do about it?’ resounds ever louder.

Dean shrugs, “Yeah, something like that.”

Cas squints at him and nods, apparently satisfied. 

The sit silently for a moment. 

Dean’s almost afraid to ask. His mouth is dry and his jaw clenches and he feels a weight on his shoulders, but he has to anyway: “Is that why you’ve been quiet all day? Cause Bobby helped you achieve enlightenment?”

“No.” No hesitation, no wavering, no eye contact. Dean’s stomach drops; he feels sick and desperate. He’s become an insecure twelve year old girl (though Sam might say that he’s just becoming more emotionally developed: upgraded from a teaspoon’s range of emotion to a much more varied and impressive tablespoon’s, to the benefit of everyone else but himself); he wants to hide his face behind Cas’ book, but he remains perfectly still instead. 

“Then why?”

Cas doesn’t immediately respond. He focuses on his hand, the good one, which he flexes, slowly and carefully. Once, twice, three times; he closes the digits into a fist and rests it gently atop his gauze clad palm. Dean is entranced by the motion, the play of Cas’ fingers, long and thin, unmarred, as his own are, by breaks and scars. 

“Bobby’s presence here has illuminated some things for me,” he finally intones, solemnly, almost dejectedly.

Dean wonders vaguely if the stilted language is being intentionally deployed for dramatic effect. If so, it’s working wonderfully. The unintentionality makes it worse somehow, some cruel universal joke to add to the list of things meant to break Dean to pieces.

“I don’t have a birthday,” Cas finally admits, looking at Dean with wide eyes. 

Dean, who had been expecting almost anything else, just sort of gapes like a fish and blinks bemusedly, and wonders if he ought to clean his ears out or something because he can’t have heard that right. 

“What?” Good going, Winchester, great, super helpful.

“I don’t have a birthday,” Cas repeats, more slowly, for clarity since Dean is clearly an inattentive moron, “The license that Bobby provided, the identity cards and papers,” he shrugs stiffly, “they had a date on them, a place, but they aren’t mine.”

Dean takes a deep, steadying breath through his nose: he is in way over his head, “It’s not my real birthday on mine either,” he offers.

Cas shakes his head, frowning more intensely, “Dean, I don’t have a birthday,” he affirms, “I was never born. My Father created me amongst multitudes before time had meaning…I don’t—I don’t have parents, in the human sense, my Father, he cast me out from my home, and my brothers and sisters…”

Cas trails off with a distant look in his eyes that just about breaks Dean’s heart in two. He continues, much more quietly, so much so that Dean has to strain to hear the words, “I miss them.”

Cas, Dean realizes, is homesick. This, he thinks with a distant, but resolute mindset, is yet another reason why god deserves to be punched in the fucking face. 

“Hey,” he moves so that he’s no longer across from Cas, but, instead, next to him; both of them together in the corner, in the circle of light, “it’s normal to miss your family.” Dean doesn’t even hesitate. Not even the memories of Zachariah or Uriel or Raphael propel him into some insensitive shtick about how Cas is better off—though he is tempted. 

Cas shakes his head, “It’s not the first time that I have been away from them, but it is the first time that I have reacted in this way.”

Dean wants to reach out to him more than anything, but he stays his hand, “Part of being human—human feelings, Cas.”

“They ‘suck,’” Cas says this with all of the vehemence of a wrathful angel, and all the nuance of someone trying out a new phrase for the first time. It’s a miracle that Dean doesn’t laugh, but instead nods in sympathy.

“Sure does, but where would we be without ‘em?” he thinks of the brief interlude in which lovey-dovey Sam had been soulless and shudders. The agony of feeling—grief, doubt, fear, anger, (he glances at Cas) longing—could eat you alive, but, without those damn messy human emotions, they’d all be monsters through and through. 

“Bobby is your family,” Cas continues, “he loves you—”

No one has ever said that, and, though he knows it to be true, it’s arresting to hear the confidence in the statement—like Bobby’s love for Sam and Dean is as sure a fact as the sun rising in the East. 

“—it’s humbling to observe that.”

Dean would wager that it’s lonely on the outside of it, too. Bobby cares about Cas, worries about him; in time, he might take him in as much as Sam and Dean, but it will take time. 

“Fuck the papers,” Dean says, and Cas looks at him sharply, “Fuck them, you can pick your birthday, whenever you want it to be. We’ll make you a cake, and sing, and get you a damn piñata if you want one—”

Cas’ eyebrows rise higher with every word. 

“—and screw whether you were born the human way or god pulled you out of his damn hat, you’re here now, and we’re gonna celebrate that, all right? No matter what the fucked up circumstances—”

He can’t stem the tide of words, and he has to look away from Cas to continue without blushing or getting flustered, because, yeah, teenaged girl, only worse.

“—you know what, Cas? Your dad? He’s a colossal dick. The asshole makes a huge mess, leaves you to clean it up, and then fucking punishes you for it? What the fuck? Way I see if you deserve a damn medal for what you did, and your dad can kiss my ass. You don’t deserve this shit. And I don’t know if Bobby said this or not, so I’m gonna go right ahead, cause fuck it: I’m damn proud of you for dealing with this fucking shit so fucking well. ‘Cause I’d have gone mental by now.”

By the time he’s finished, he’s breathing heavily, flushed, angry, and embarrassed as fuck.

He’s almost afraid that he’s pissed Cas off or made it worse somehow. Dean’s too much of a coward to read Cas’ face or even look at him, so he glares at the cover of Cas’ book like it’s done him a great personal wrong. Fucking screw solitude. 

“Dean,” Cas says after a full minute has passed. Dean can feel his gaze, tangible, heavy, focused, “Dean, look at me.”

Cas rarely demands anything of him (these days anyway; he’s been a damn bossy little shit in the past), but Dean doesn’t move, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when gentle fingertips come to rest on his jaw.

“Jesus,” he curses, but he allows the fingers to guide him, forcing his chin upwards, forcing him to meet Cas’ gaze.

Cas’ eyes are a deeper blue somehow, they’re alert and alive and they are intent on Dean, scrutinizing him, absorbing every inch of him, looking through him. Dean swallows, couldn’t look away if you paid him; he’s trapped.

“Thank you,” Cas whispers, like a prayer, like a plea, like a damn benediction. Like Dean is the center of the universe, and Dean is humbled and terrified and floored by the fact that he must have done something right for once.

He clears his throat, “Any—Anytime, Cas.”

The tiniest smile ticks the corner of Cas’ mouth, “Why must you always make light of things?”

Because it’s the only way I make it out of this alive, the only way I make it out in one piece, the only way you don’t burn me to ashes, because that’s what you’re doing. You’re doing it more than if you used your grace and burned me clean out. 

Cas still has his fingers on Dean’s chin—white hot points of contact, even though Cas’ skin is cool to the touch—and he’s searching him with his eyes. It’s giving Dean chills. He needs to pull back, he needs to move away. He’s about a second away from leaning into the fire—it’s warm and inviting and frightening all at once—he needs to back off or he’s going to get burned.

Dean sighs, and it takes all his willpower to move away, to disengage. Cas looks confused and somewhat disappointed. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

Dean shakes his head, “You got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

Cas looks determinedly away; Dean wants to bash his head into a wall repeatedly. 

It’s with his bandaged hand covered by his good one, and his eyes fixed firmly away that Cas asks, “Will you stay tonight?”

Dean startles, “You want me to?”

Cas turns toward him quickly, quizzically; “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I—” –kissed you last night? Because we cuddled? Because I wrapped myself around you? Because you’re becoming my center of gravity and that has to freak you out? Because I want you and I shouldn’t? Because you should run away from me as fast as you can? Because I’ll fucking hurt you?

Cas tilts his head to the side, scowls, confused.

“Never mind,” they won’t talk about it. Sam would pitch a fit about missed opportunities and stupidity and give him bitch face #51 have you learned nothing?, but Sam doesn’t need to know, and if Cas doesn’t remember or Cas doesn’t want to bring it up, then far be it from Dean to talk about it. Denial is the better part of valor (he can hear Sam’s correction and chooses to ignore it). He shoves the memory in some deep, dark corner of himself locks it away, safely to be ignored and torment him in equal measure undoubtedly. Dean makes healthy decisions like that, “Sure, I’ll stay.”

They rearrange the nest from last night, turn out the light, and Dean hesitates for only a second before he lies down, facing Cas facing him. 

“You know,” Dean whispers, somehow it’s easier in the dark, “You can talk about them—if it’ll help, if you wanna—your brothers.”

Cas places his injured hand atop Dean’s in the negative space between them. There’s maybe a foot of separation and somehow, to Dean, it feels simultaneously like an aching chasm and yet no space at all. He’s not sure how that’s even possible. Cas’ hand on his is warm and steadying. It’s strong and vulnerable and it makes his heart leap in some sort of agonized joy that confuses the fuck out of him. He feels like he could climb a damn mountain and should throw himself off a cliff at the same damn time. He’s a contradictory fucking mess, and it’s confusing as fuck, but he wouldn’t give it up if you paid him. He wouldn’t trade this for anything, and he doesn’t care how fucking pathetic that makes him. Mooching off a goddamn vulnerable fallen angel whose millennium old ass should know better than to trust Dean or reach for him like he’s his fucking rock. The fact that Cas had seen Dean in hell and is willing to fucking lie here next to him, offer up his injury and his weakness and himself—Dean feels the magnitude of that, wants to shy away from it; it’s like looking into the sun, and the lump in his throat makes it hard to breathe.

Cas is quiet for a long time before he speaks. 

“We are not like you and Sam.”

Dean shakes his head with a rueful laugh, “Most humans aren’t like me Sam.”

“I suppose so.”

Cas starts off stiltedly, slowly, but becomes steadier as he goes: he tells Dean about Samandriel’s kindness and Inias’ faith. Hester’ protectiveness and Rachel’ fierceness; Balthazar’s playfulness and loyalty; Hael’s artistry and grace. He sounds pained when he speaks of Uriel, whose betrayal aches more now than ever, and Anna, whose death brings Cas new depths of grief. Dean listens to these secrets and stories that Cas has never told another soul. He laughs and he sighs, and, when Cas sheds a tear or ten, Dean wipes them away. 

“I wonder what’s happened to them,” he admits, gruffly, and Dean can tell that this, most of all, is what troubles him, the way the words are torn from him, “If they were punished as I was…it was not their fault…they should not be punished for my sins.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he just holds Cas’ hand pulls it so that it’s resting over his heart, waits for Cas to go on, which he does.

Eventually, Cas’ words slow and slur; Dean’s eyes become heavy. 

“Thank you,” Cas whispers, still clutching Dean’s fingers.

Dean’s smile is soft and somnolent, tender, “Anytime, Cas.”

They fall asleep together, and though they move in the night—closer to one another, Cas tucked to Dean’s side and Dean curled around him—neither wakes till morning, and neither dreams. 

Bobby stays for another week, which passes more or less without incident. The actual holiday is celebrated with a red-blooded American barbeque and two of Jamie’s pies: triple berry and apple. True to form, Cas demolishes two cheeseburgers, and Dean eats half a pie on his own. They watch The Patriot, which Sam and Cas are determined to ruin for Dean; between Sam’s grudge against Mel Gibson and Cas’ disgust with the historical inaccuracy. Bobby finds the whole thing hilarious.

Dean takes Bobby to Ms. Liddy’s diner. It’s across from the shop, and Dean pops by for coffee on a regular basis. Ms. Liddy fucking loves him. She also makes the best pancakes he’s ever had in his life. Ever. Bobby agrees with Dean’s assessment. The proprietress herself comes out to meet Dean’s ‘daddy’ and says that she can ‘see where your boy got his good looks.’ Dean snorts into this coffee and doesn’t correct her. Liddy flirts so hard with Bobby that the old man actually becomes flustered and it’s kinda adorable. Dean’s gonna tease him probably forever.

Bobby makes friends with Jack Wilson—turns out they know of one another through the complex network of hunters. Wilson’s met Rufus Turner a few times, and he and Bobby share some stories and a bottle of Johnny Walker blue. 

Sam and Bobby work on the library. Bobby spends time with Dean in his shed, looking over his work with a proud and discerning eye. Cas and Bobby sit together in the town square in the afternoon or on the porch in the evening; silently, occasionally speaking. Dean wonders what they talk about, but neither of them volunteers that information, and Dean doesn’t ask. 

Sam is still quieter than usual. He looks tired and troubled, but no matter what Dean says he won’t spill. Cas seems quieter as well, but it’s a steady sort of quiet, not quite peaceful, but not too far off either. Contemplative, maybe, thoughtful. The circles under his eyes are less pronounced, and he’s healing relatively quickly. He and Dean have been sleeping together every night (ostensibly because they collectively decided that Cas should camp out in the armory until the danger of firework triggers have completely passed, which doesn’t actually necessitate Dean’s presence, but Dean’s presence continues regardless.); there have only been two nightmares in the past week. No one comments on it; especially not Dean, though Bobby shoots him knowing looks and Sam makes bitch face #12: how are we related? every morning. 

Before they know it, Bobby’s car is loaded up with his duffle, five hex boxes, the Japanese collection from the library, and two of Jamie’s pies for the road. 

Cas is waiting by the car for his farewell, and Sam goes back inside up to grab a codex that he forgot, leaving Bobby and Dean alone on the porch. 

“You boys behave yourselves,” he says gruffly.

“Don’t be a stranger, old man,” he returns. 

Bobby nods, as if to say just try to keep me away, “We’ll see if Garth managed to start another apocalypse.”

Dean chuckles appreciatively, then clears his throat and shuffles his feet. 

“You know, Bobby,” he doesn’t look at the man as he continues, “You aren’t like him…your dad. You’re a better man than he ever was,” a good father. 

Bobby works his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything for a minute, “Thanks, son.”

Dean shrugs, embarrassed. 

“I’m prouda you.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” 

“All right,” Bobby clears his throat purposefully, “Im gonna hit the road before we start sob into our handkerchiefs.”

Dean laughs. 

Hugs are exchanged, promises to call are made. Bobby drives away, leaving his three boys in the driveway, with real life to return to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 15. I can’t believe we’ve made it this far, and I just want to thank all of you amazing people for reading and commenting and encouraging this fic. You’re the reason that it keeps going, and I cannot express how much I appreciate your support.
> 
> I hope you are all okay in the wake of that traumatic premiere (‘cause I’m not). I was worried that the new season would make writing harder, but instead I think that writing is going to be a cathartic form of canonical denial, where hurt/comfort and domesticity reign supreme.
> 
> I would seriously love to hear what you thought of this chapter. Sending lots of love your way until next time. xo
> 
> PS  
> Really sorry for the length of this chapter and the shameless use of Billy Joel lyrics as the chapter title.


	16. Never Play the Game Too Long

Sam Winchester likes to think of himself as a pretty self-aware individual. If he told Dean that, he would scoff and give him that super annoying exaggerated eye-roll that he does, but, Sam maintains that it’s true. Hell, it was a fucking intense process coming to this point—a really long process that involved John and Jess and Ruby and demon blood and Lucifer and an Apocalypse, and a lot of mistakes that, no matter what he does, he can never truly make up for or erase. The point is, after all of that, Sam is relatively certain that he has a pretty firm handle on his internal landscape (he does not use that phrase in his brother’s presence to avoid the immature teasing). He knows that he’s obsessive. He gets that he is angry. He’s well aware of the fact that he is more than willing to go dark side in extreme circumstances. He’s a lot like his dad, only worse, and the thought makes him uncomfortable. When he was a kid, the comparison would have made him want to jump off a cliff; when Dean was in hell, the thought would have been a source of pride, but, now, after everything, he’s not sure what exactly that association does to him. He just knows that it’s something of a cautionary tale. He doesn’t want to be that person. He knows not to do go down that road, and he tries, god, how he tries, not to repeat his father’s mistakes. Sam knows that he can never truly make amends for everything that he’s done, but he’s trying to take this new lease on life and do something right with it. At the very least, he wants to avoid repeating the past. 

This is all to say that Sam Winchester is very aware of himself in relation to the world around him—unlike some people, who shall remain nameless (and unfortunately share his residence), and are so in denial about their feelings that they are basically walking blindly into walls. Sam rolls his eyes in frustration a lot these days. 

When Bobby comes out to visit them in July, Sam fully expects (and he will not deny that, on some level, he is mildly excited by the prospect) some sort of intervention for Dean. He is chomping at the bit to participate if necessary. He’s definitely ready to help with a pseudo pep talk for Castiel. Sam does not, by any stretch of the imagination, expect to be the target of Bobby’s intercession, and he’s blindsided by it in a truly unpleasant way. 

No matter what Dean might say to the contrary, Sam has not spent the intervening time between his discussion with Bobby and the present sulking. This accusation—which his brother makes with increasing frequency, in increasingly nonverbal, but, distinctly more troubling ways—is, Sam strives to maintain, unfounded.

“Little defensive there, Sammy,” a whisper taunts him, “Methinks, the Lady doth protest too much,” the voice sounds hauntingly like Lucifer. For a moment he smells sulfur, fire, blood.  
Sam groans and runs his hands agitatedly through his hair, blocking out the image, the ghost of a memory only partially realized. Here and now, he counsels himself, here and now.   
The here and now involves being pissed at himself. Jesus Christ, Dean is the one who sulks. It’s his big brother who pouts, suffering in silence, brooding. It’s Dean who succumbs to teary eyed confessionals. It’s Dean who represses his emotions to an annoyingly stoic degree and gives new meaning to the phrase “man-pain.” Hell, Dean’s picture should be included in the dictionary as the quintessential example of emotional repression. He’s quite literally a textbook case. It’s Dean who is viciously embroiled in this shit. It’s Dean who shuffles around all twisted up inside. Sam is centered, Sam is self-aware, Sam faces his shit head on…doesn’t he?  
“Like I said, the Lady. Doth Protest. Too Much.”  
“Shut up,” he tells himself, pressing his fingers hard into his eyes sockets. Colors blossom in kaleidoscopic arrangements behind his eyelids; interspersed with flashes of light.   
He blinks, blearily at the room, expecting to see his brother or a hallucination. He’s relieved to find neither. Dean has taken to checking up on him with bizarre, uncomfortable, (and, in Sam’s reckoning) unmerited frequency. Sam is, subsequently, beyond annoyed. Dean pokes his head around doorjambs, peers at him critically from the stove top (when he should be focused on the oil spitting dangerously from the pan), watches him with narrowed eyes from across the table. Sam half expects him to use his spoon as an airplane and threaten to send him to bed without dessert if he doesn’t finish his greens. Dean scrutinizes Sam’s appearance, the color of his skin, the rings around his eyes, his general state of unkemptness and unease. Even worse, he’s taken to solicitously inquiring after him all the damn time. Yesterday, he brought a heart healthy study snack to library. He even, alarmingly, referred to it as a ‘heart healthy study snack,” which means that Dean took the time to research what that consisted off and is now worried after Sam’s cardiorespiratory system, which, in Sam’s estimation, is kind of overkill. He would undoubtedly be appreciative under other circumstances, in which, you know, he had an appetite. As it stands, the apples and peanut butter, yogurt granola parfait, and orange, had lain uneaten. Dean’s mouth had thinned to a hard, disappointed line when he realized his gesture had gone unacknowledged, and Sam had a fleeting moment of guilt, before he hastened (not skulked, the distinction is important), back to his work.  
Dean’s queries about Sam’s sleeping habits, his dietary exploits, his alertness, health…it leaves Sam grumbling, bad tempered, and, after two weeks, it’s resulted in him snapping impatiently.   
“I’m not a baby, Dean,” he had spat earlier.  
Dean had pulled himself up to his full height and glared fiercely, “Coulda fooled me,” he barked, before turning on his heel and stomping down the stairs.  
Sam had chucked a book at Dean’s head. Embarrassingly, he missed and was forced to collect the volume shamefaced, frustrated, and compelled to throw something else all at once.   
They’re at odds and the tension is thick, uncomfortable, and abrasive. They’re grating on each other’s nerves. Sam has the niggling suspicion that this could all be resolved if they’d just talk it out, but…he ignores the impulse. He feels a strange sense of triumph and self-righteousness in refusing to give in to Dean’s queries and concern. Letting Dean take care of him feels strangely like capitulating in this battle of wills, and Sam refuses to do it. He doesn’t even care if that’s stupid or irrational. Letting someone else take care of him is at the root of his fucking problems. Dean can go fuck himself and leave Sam alone.  
The trouble is that, no matter how supposedly self-aware or emotionally mature he may be, Bobby’s words ricochet around Sam’s brain almost incessantly. The leave him feeling lost, guilty, confused, trapped, and angry. He reaches a boiling point before spinning around, coming full circle, and starting on a slow simmer again. He can’t shake their conversation. It replays endlessly. It overrides the words in his texts, plays over and over in his head when he tries to sleep. It keeps him up at night, distracts him during the day, and troubles him at every point in between.   
Sam honestly wishes that he could completely extract the whole thing from his brain. He wants to expunge everything about it, not least, the residual, and overwhelming, sense of uncertainty and, almost, panic. He hasn’t wished so fervently to be rid of an intruder like this since Lucifer. It doesn’t help that the stress is causing him to have uncomfortable flashbacks to hell and hauntings. Possession addles you. He wonders what soul branding scars the Devil left on his way out because, even now, it’s far too easy for Sam’s sub-consciousness to conjure him in exacting detail.   
Sam buries his face in his hands again, this is not an emotional or psychological place that he wants to be. See? Self-awareness. He is in full understanding and appreciation of the fact that he does not want to be so fucked up that he’s back to seeing and hearing Satan. He does not want to be in a place where he can’t sleep or focus. He sure as hell doesn’t want to be this frustrated or confused or uncertain. Yet…he’s unwilling to acknowledge or consider how the hell he’s supposed to climb out of this place. He just…he can’t…  
That’s how Cas finds him.   
Cas showing up in the library isn’t weird. He and Sam frequently work together: research, cataloguing, translation. They spend a lot of time together up here. It’s a comfortable ambience and arrangement, all things told.   
What is weird is Cas dropping into the chair across from him. Cas usually sits on the floor, he tucks (or attempts to tuck) his six-or-more feet tall frame into the various nooks, crannies, and corners afforded by the space. What is unusual is Cas fixing Sam with a penetrative stare. It’s the intense, unblinking, Dumbledore-esque surveillance that he usually reserves for a particularly complex problem or Dean (it should be noted that the two are not mutually exclusive by any stretch of the imagination). Sam is not regularly the subject of this gaze, and, now as he peers at Cas through his fingers, he can appreciate that Dean’s categorization of the ‘angel eyes’ as being ‘freaky’ is pretty much right on the mark. Sam has the strangest sense that Cas can see his soul; can see straight through him, unearth all of his secrets, good or bad, and pass judgment if he so chooses. It leaves Sam feeling alarmingly exposed, like no shield would ever fully conceal him. A sense of panic, a need to bolt, races through his veins. He wonders if this how Dean feels all the damn time. It’s a troubling, almost cautionary thought.   
Sam inhales deeply, forcibly removes his hands from his face, and sits up straight in his chair. He feels that he may be on the verge of an angelic inquisition. He knows he’s guilty of whatever sins shall be brought to bear. Sam makes a show of marking his page; the one that he’s read seven separate times without understanding it in even the slightest. So much progress to mark, he mocks himself. It’s hard sometimes, to distinguish between his mental voice and something much darker. Perhaps, after so much time, there is no distinction to be had. Perhaps that darkness is just a part of him, inextricable, blighting, damning, forever instilled.   
He clears his throat, draws himself back to the here and now. In the here and now, Cas sits across from him, clearly waiting for him to make the first move. He wonders how much of his internal dialogue is discernable to the former-angel. He feels uncomfortably like maybe all of it.   
“Do you, ah, have something on your mind, Cas?” he asks, hoping against all hope that the answer is no; that his worry and Cas’ presence are mere coincidence. His voice sounds overly tentative. Does it sound overly tentative? How does one accomplish normalcy when it feels like one’s insides are diseased tissue held together, just barely, with paperclips, string, and some superglue? He should be better at this by now. Better at the act. He’d been doing so well at it for weeks (hell, for years)…he’d almost fallen for his own charade, and now? Now he can barely keep it together for the length of a conversation. He doesn’t have the confidence for the show. He’s given up on his own lies. There’s nothing left but a pasted on smile and even that is tenuous at best.  
Cas blinks, “You seem troubled.”  
Now it’s Sam’s turn to blink. He wonders if Dean maybe clued Cas into his concerns. Has his brother gotten that desperate? Sharing the angel perched on his shoulder? Sending Cas on a reconnaissance mission? Jesus. He feels his ire rising, heady and thick, but Cas apparently is just as good at reading him as Sam had feared.  
“Dean didn’t send me,” Cas notes.  
“Then—?”  
Cas rolls his eyes and shakes his head and he’s suddenly, incredibly human, and Sam feels again embarrassed, though he’s not sure exactly why.   
“I was worried about you,” he continues with a frown, as if this should have all been plainly obvious to him—ah, Sam recognizes his guilt, it’s the brand that comes from underestimating or disappointing someone you care about, who cares about you, “I thought perhaps, that you might want to ‘talk’.”  
Sam sort of stares blankly.  
Cas continues, somewhat sheepishly, “I’m given to understand that, when friends notice distress they intervene and inquire after the source.”  
“Yeah,” Sam begins, hoarsely, clears his throat, “They, ah, they do that.”  
Cas nods, sharply, relieved that his assumption has been proven true, perhaps also relieved that Sam is deigning to speak with him at all. The tension between the brothers has apparently been affecting Cas more than Sam thought…honestly, he hadn’t thought about it at all; he suddenly feels like a shitty friend.  
Cas continues to consider Sam, “Do you want to, ah, ‘talk about it’?”  
“No, yes, I,” he grips his hair in frustration, “I don’t know.”  
“A wise friend once told me that talking would help.”  
Cas’ penetrative stare leaves him with no illusions of who, exactly, that friend had been. He’s both touched and embarrassed at once. There’s also a faint creeping of pride along the edges.   
“Perhaps it would help for me to begin?”  
“Cas, that’s really nice of you, but you don’t have to—”  
Cas shrugs and shakes his head. The gestures fall more naturally on him than they did weeks ago.   
There’s an almost sheepish smile playing on Cas’ lips; if you weren’t looking for it, it would be imperceptible, “Bobby Singer has an uncanny ability to make you, ah, reflect upon yourself in uncomfortable ways,” his mouth twists wryly, Sam recognizes the expression, it’s a perfect echo of how he himself has been feeling for weeks, “You were not the only one who was affected by that particular characteristic.”  
On the one hand, Sam is reluctant to violate Cas’ privacy; but, on the other hand…he’s curious as to what Bobby said to him. He can’t help it. It’s a morbid curiosity perhaps. Curiosity killed the cat, a voice murmurs in the back of his head. He and Death, he counters, are old friends. Been there, done that.   
“What did you talk about?”  
Cas sits back a bit, less ramrod straight, leaning into a storytelling posture. It’s new. Sam catalogs it. He occasionally thinks of these moments as entries in a mental folder he labels, “Cas’ Baby Book.” He will never mention this to a soul.   
“We went to a Veteran’s Association meeting.”  
Sam stares disbelievingly.   
“You went where?”  
“A Veteran’s Association Meeting,” Cas affirms, carefully, a bit of angelic impatience coming through in the sharpness of the consonants, “Bobby thought it was important for me to, ah, recognize that I was not a, in his words, ‘special snowflake.’”  
“A special snowflake,” Sam repeats dumbly.  
Cas inclines his head, “That was his phrasing, yes.”  
Sam rubs the back of his neck, “Cas, no offense to Bobby, but you kind of are a special case here…”  
Cas has a pronounced furrow between his brows, but he isn’t frowning. It’s more like he’s struggling to fully express himself.   
“I am not,” he eventually intones, “the only one who suffers…there are others who suffer in similar ways…”  
Sam raises his brows. Last time he checked, fallen angels weren’t exactly crowding the sidewalks in downtown Main Street; and, thank god for small miracles on that. He cringes at the prospect of Cas’ brothers and sisters running amok on earth. He’s getting carried away here, Cas, he’s relatively certain is speaking figuratively, which is, in its own way more difficult to wrap his head around…His mouth tightens and he’s trying to stay neutral, but his incredulity may be shining through regardless…Cas is not normal, none of them are, but Cas perhaps least of all…to equate his issues with your average Joe is, well, Sam’s not sure what the hell Bobby had been thinking.  
Cas, perhaps sensing Sam’s skepticism, responds more bluntly this time, seemingly frustrated by his lack of understanding.   
“I was a soldier, a warrior--,” he explains, “That was my purpose, my only purpose, and now…,” he shrugs again, the furrow deepens, and Sam feels a strangely overwhelming sense of empathy and sorrow for his friend, “now it is not. I’m not the only one who has experienced such a transition.”  
Cas blinks and tilts his head, “The scale is obviously different, but the general experience…is not so unique.”  
Sam remains unconvinced: species reassignment against your consent isn’t exactly a widespread phenomenon, but Bobby apparently had had a different perspective.   
As Cas explains, he had driven him to the VA and told Cas to ‘suck it up and play nice.’ Bobby had concocted a story—two tours of duty in Afghanistan, the lone survivor of an attack, phantom limb syndrome (he neglected to specify which), PTSD, TBI—he’d even brought paper work to back it up. Cas had sort of just allowed it to happen, confused, uncertain on his feet, dubious of the purpose of this exercise, much more willing to drift around the house, left to his own devices.   
He had received calculating looks and sympathetic glances from the others, as if he were being judged, weighed, and measured.   
Sam imagines it, almost too easily; Cas slinking to the VA, awkwardly following Bobby, scandalized by the old hunter’s inability to even remotely encapsulate his experience within such a flimsy back story. He can picture Cas, glaring indignantly when Bobby stepped on his foot and narrowed his eyes warningly, telling Cas to shut up and ‘quit acting like a baby.’ Cas unused to chastisement, torn between righteous indignation, pride, and a clinging sensation that Bobby may be right, that he himself might be behaving immaturely, even disrespectfully, choosing to concede the point and doing as he was bid almost penitently.  
Sam can clearly visualize Cas, taking deep breaths through his nose, frightened and unsure in the face of so many strangers, new surroundings, unflinching eyes. Sweaty palms, jumping stomach, a vague sense of unease—sensations that are so unbearably unfamiliar, and yet so much a part of Cas interactions with the world as a human; a defense mechanism born of limited (human) senses and an encroaching feeling of danger. Cas straightening his spine and glaring back anyway because Cas does nothing better, in all the universe, than give as good as he gets. Sam wonders, occasionally, what it is that Cas tells himself in such moments; he imagines that it’s something like ‘you pulled the righteous man out of hell, you can do this, suck it up,’ though, probably more eloquent and probably not in English.  
Bobby had nodded encouragingly when Cas puffed up his chest defiant, daring, unknowingly gaining the respect of the others in the room with his posture, with his carriage, with his confidence despite his fear.  
Cas has seen wars, Sam knows, he has seen death, carnage, Hell itself—fuck, the man has waged war in hell—so it’s no surprise that he could adapt his stories. This first time though, it had been more important, he admits now in the comfort of the library, that he listen. In listening, he’d found a shred of comfort, rooted in sympathy and empathy and sorrow and pain…feelings that, as an angel, he had never been able to fully master—there had been no human experience with which to take on the full range of human emotion and subsequently ‘put himself in another’s shoes.’ Sam’s mouth quirks of its own volition in response to Cas’ finger quotes and use of a new idiom.   
Cas had, apparently, in addition to understanding and comfort, experienced a shred of shame, for thinking that he was the only one, however briefly. Sam can relate to that sensation all too well. In fact, he muses ruefully, it seems to be a running theme through Bobby’s heart-to-heart chats.  
The individuals that Cas had met—different ages and genders and races and creeds—suffered trauma, dislocation, fear, an inability to connect upon their return, an almost complete inability to speak of what they’d seen, or even understand it. They knew what it was to look upon other humans, normal humans, and see them, occasionally, as an alien species, so different were their perspectives and experience of the world. The return to ‘civilian life’ had jarred and shocked, suffocated and stifled, made them feel alone and alien; foreigners in their own homes, strangers to their families. They had lost limbs, jobs, brothers, sisters, sanity, security, their very sense of self. It was agonizing and embittering and painful and much of that—almost all of it—Cas could understand all too well. He had nightmares, he questioned himself, he could sometimes not bear to be touched or spoken to; he could barely give voice to what he had lived through or seen in his many many years and here…there were people who understood that…who understood what it was to be part of a network, a cog in a machine, ‘fox in a hole’ (“you mean you shared a foxhole?” “yes, exactly”), they understood that sensation (“though not exactly—in the Host our connections were metaphysical, our graces could touch and link and sensations were used more oft than language to express things, in this way we could literally become one in certain moments of battle”); they also understood being removed from that and no longer understanding their place.  
“You and your brother are, of course, great warriors,” Cas continues with an inclination of his head, an acknowledgment, “but—,” he hesitates.  
“But it’s different,” Sam contends. He and Dean have each other and they’ve been to hell and back for one another, literally and figuratively, but there is something very different about the two of them. Sam’s not going to touch on the codependency and the daddy issues and the mommy issues and the crippling way in which to lose his brother was like losing half of himself, but, he sighs, it’s a unique situation. They have their own personal, two man foxhole. Hell, they grew up in that foxhole, they’ve grown inextricably close in that foxhole—it’s different. Sam and Dean against the world, fighting for each other, for family, it’s different from Cas’ eternity fighting someone else’s war. Cas brought into creation for the sole purpose of fighting someone else’s unwinnable, unknowable war. Stationed, waiting, watching, fighting, with untold billions of siblings, most of whom were strangers to him, ever more the pawn of his superiors, trained to take orders and do his duty and nothing else—well, Sam can maybe relate to that bit. Cas at the end of all that, finally choosing for himself, choosing the war that he wanted to fight, choosing humanity, choosing what he thought was just and rebelling and living and dying for that cause—and finally, being discharged, disarmed, stranded and maimed by his father…Sam’s jaw tightens with sympathy, with regret and sorrow, with something that feels like wrath. He sometimes thinks that Lucifer’s greatest influence, the legacy he left, was to take the nascent rage, which had always been an intimate, inextricable part of Sam, like molten lava, flowing, simmering in his veins, and crystalize it into something pure, to turn it into something icy, clean, clear, razor sharp. His anger freezes and congeals; burns cold; it sharpens his vision and strengthens his sense of purpose. It crystalizes within him, roots him to the spot—makes his jaw clench and his spine straighten before he breathes and lets it go.   
It’s not fair, what’s happened to Cas. It’s not fair what’s happened to any of them. And for what? On bad days, Sam asks himself that and he hates that he even wonders. Two tours in hell, fallen angels, sacrificed childhoods, lives, love…it’s not right. It’s not fair…  
He clears his throat.   
“So that’s, ah, where you and Bobby kept going? The VA?” He wonders whether this news would assuage Dean’s fears or open up new pathways for his big brother’s nerves. He imagines Dean, narrow eyed, suspicious, falsely cheerful, as he worries about some handsome Marine, sweeping Cas off his feet with his brooding silent scowl. Cas has a type, he imagines Dean shouting panicked; it’s almost enough to make Sam laugh. Almost. Dean’s an idiot if he thinks that Cas would have eyes for anyone else. Ever.  
The former angel in question, nods, “they, have a ‘support group’ that meets twice a week,” he informs Sam, “Bobby and I also went to the park.”  
Sam repeats dumbly, “The park?”  
“I enjoy watching humanity,” Cas shrugs—it’s getting to be his favorite gesture, “Bobby believes that observation will eventually encourage more active participation.”  
“Oh.”  
Bobby was apparently giving Cas some homemade, modified CBT, and, interestingly, though maybe unsurprisingly, the old man had found a way to do so that was respectful and forceful at once. Trust Bobby to figure out angel psychology.   
Cas pauses and waits, blue eyes bright and piercing. He’s infuriatingly patient, and, in this moment, seems incredibly old and wise, like a favorite grandfather who would give you peppermint candies and smoke a pipe and listen to your stories. Like a character out of C. S. Lewis or Tolkein (or the authors themselves), and Sam isn’t sure how the hell he manages to look like that, given the fact that he just confessed that Bobby more or less took him on a field trip to learn that he wasn’t a ‘special snowflake’ and told him to stop acting like he was so damn special already before taking him to feed the birds.   
Sam tries to not feel badly about the fact that Cas has widely outpaced him in terms of maturity. Bobby pointed out an issue, that no one else in the fucking family—yeah, Sam is going to designate them as that, because, if they’re at the stage where they can go on support group field trips and have holiday picnics, they are, family—even realized was an issue, and, instead of pitching a fit and sulking in the library for a few weeks, Cas basically just said, ‘oh, you make a very good point,’ and worked on fixing the problem, head on. Sam knows that would be difficult—would mean swallowing angelic pride (which is, quite honestly an impressive feat) and accepting difficult social situations, and forcibly making himself uncomfortable—but he did it anyway. Sam tries to remind himself that Cas has billions of years on him, of course, he’d be more mature, but somehow, the amount of trauma that Cas has endured in his few weeks as a human stand as a glaring chastisement to Sam.   
Cas is still waiting—no judgment on his face, just placid, quite, calm. It’s an invitation for confidence, a promise of acceptance.  
Sam feels his throat constrict against an onslaught of verbosity. The kindness, the strange wounded wisdom that emanates from Cas in waves, is almost paralyzing. It makes Sam feel unclean by contrast, makes him feel stilted, dirty, unworthy. He has no right to a friendly ear, no right to comfort or compassion. No right to the empathy or the sympathy that Cas has developed such an abiding propensity for.   
Cas blinks, still waiting. Sam clears his throat.  
“I believe that it is your turn,” Cas nudges, “if you feel comfortable.”  
“Yeah,” Sam runs his hands over his face and through his hair. It’s a nervous habit, born of stress and exhaustion. He really hasn’t been sleeping well.   
“You don’t have to talk,” Cas reminds him, “and I don’t presume to know much about these ‘chick-flick’ moments—”  
Sam gives a wet laugh at that.   
“—but I think it may help you to exorcize what has been troubling you.”  
Sam takes a deep inhale through his nose—it’s fortifying, like the gulp of air you take in before you jump off the diving board and into the deep end.  
“Bobby said that I was turning into Emily Dickenson,” he blurts out, louder than he originally intended.  
Cas frowns at the outburst; Sam wants to cover his eyes. Cas hesitates for the barest second before he speaks, “I was unaware that you had taken up poetry, but I’m certain that Dean would be amenable to publishing your work posthumously if you so desire.”  
Sam blinks. Cas blinks.

“Did you just make a joke?” he asks almost dumfounded.

“Was it funny?” Cas has a perfect poker face, but there is the tiniest gleam in his eyes, a weird flicker of humor, wry wit, shining out of their depths.

“Holy shit,” Sam snorts and he’s laughing almost hysterically.

Cas smiles hesitantly. 

“I presume then that you haven’t taken up poetry in your leisure time,” Cas continues in light of Sam’s laughter.

The young Winchester wipes at his eyes. 

“No,” he admits, suddenly sober, “no, I haven’t.”

Cas cocks an eyebrow, “So Bobby was referring to your self-isolation.”

“You think I’m isolating myself?”

Cas’ mouth twitches at the corner, “I can see why you would have been successful as a lawyer.”

Sam laughs drily, almost painfully. He’s not a lawyer and that is the whole damn problem in a nutshell. 

Before he can stop himself, the story pours out of him.

Bobby had browsed the shelves before sitting exactly where Cas now perches, giving him a stare that was just as piercing.

That’s when Sam knew he was in trouble.  
“What’re you doin’, boy?” he had asked, face a strange mix of levity and concern.   
Sam had the strangest sensation that it was a trick question, for the barest moment he worried that Bobby was going senile, because Sam was clearly working in the library. It was common knowledge, a totally transparent action. Considering the relatively innocuous nature of his current project in comparison with Sam’s earlier, ah, ‘ventures’, Bobby’s questioning posture seemed entirely out of place. Sam decided that the best course of action was to respond as sensibly as possible, treat Bobby the way that he would treat Dean on the verge of a breakdown of some kind.  
“I’m, ah, sorting the medieval collection?” he brandished the volume of parchment in his hand by way of explanation.   
Bobby watched the movement critically, as if Sam were the one who were losing his mental acuity, “Yeah, I can see that,” he inclined his head solemnly, “and at the rate you’re goin’ you’re gonna be done sortin’ a lifetime’s worth of archive an a year—maybe two.”

He said the last as if it were a serious problem, rather than a hallmark of fastidious work ethic.

Sam felt a frown encroach upon his forehead, a headache began a vicious tattoo at his temples, and somehow he felt like he’d missed a step going down the stairs. He had a sudden recollection of bringing home an A+ spelling paper, which his dad received with utter disdain because it was not as important as shotgun marksmanship. There was something terrifyingly similar about Bobby’s disapproval: disappoint where Sam had expected praise. 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” he asked, still with a slight tone of lightheartedness, but his self-assurance was mitigated by confusion. 

Bobby shrugged and leaned back in his chair, “That depends.”

“On…?”

“Sam,” Bobby was definitively frowning, “why exactly are you in such a rush?”

“Is that a trick question?” he almost laughed with incredulity, his eyes widened, but quickly narrowed in consternation when Bobby did not share the joke. 

Bobby simply shrugged. 

Sam felt something like impatience rising along with his hackles, “Bobby, this work is important. There’s years of untapped history, resources we’ve only dreamed about, it’s incredible.” The archives that were unearthed in the library alone (never mind the crates and boxes waiting the attic or basement) were a scholarly wet dream. The knowledge contained here could save lives, could seriously change things, could help people, and Bobby expected him to what? Just leave it to rot for another century?

Bobby frowned more deeply and shook his head, as if Sam were entirely missing his point, “Son, I ain’t sayin’ that this isn’t important work,” he reassured gruffly, “God knows, I wanna get my hands on this stuff much as you do…but, Sam, you’re acting like you’re preparing for judgment day.”

He met Sam’s eyes with his own, wide, far too understanding gaze, “You may have noticed that crisis has been averted.” 

Bobby’s words were gentle, but Sam still felt frozen in place for a moment, the sensation of falling, an impression of fire, ice, howling wind, all-consuming blackness and blinding light. He shook himself out of his daze and back into the present where Bobby’s sympathetic stare was waiting. 

“Yeah, I’d noticed,” he’s not sure whether his voice sounds defeated, exhausted, or resigned. It certainly lacks the sarcasm that Sam had expected to rise to his defense. 

Bobby nodded shortly, “Good.”

Sam felt suddenly drained, “Bobby, what exactly are you getting at?”

“I’m just wonderin’ why you’re shutting yourself up like a monk…seems an awful lot like you’re doin’ penance.”

“Penance?”

“Son, you hole yourself up here for days at a time—”

“No, I don’t,” Sam negated vehemently.

Bobby’s brows almost hit the rim of his trucker’s cap.

“I go out.” Fuck Dean and Cas for this. You spend a night or two working in the library and suddenly you have a ‘problem’ and need to be ratted on. What is this Kindergarten? 

“Uhuh,” Bobby’s mouth pursed, “How many people you know in this town—how many connections you made?”

Sam opened his mouth and closed it, sharply. 

“You’re tired, you look like you ain’t seen the light of day in about a month.”

Exaggeration, he thought, but he began to doubt himself. When was the last time he had slept in his own bed? When was the last time he’d actually gone out to do anything besides buy groceries? When was the last time he’d had an actual conversation with someone to whom he was not related?

“You didn’t have a problem givin’ up your room, cause you ain’t livin’ in there, Sam,” there was something pained in Bobby’s eyes, “I didn’t raise you boys to be this stupid.”

A knife twisted painfully in Sam’s gut at those words. Some ache heretofore unknown or unexamined suddenly rose to the surface and it burned him all the way through, as powerful as hellfire and more debilitating for its element of surprise. 

“Bobby—” he tried to interrupt with no notion of what to say, but the older man cut him off efficiently with a brusque wave of his hand.

He adjusted his hat and continued, “I didn’t raise you period,” he sighed, “your daddy was a self-absorbed bastard, and he fucked you boys over more ways than I can count…I shoulda stepped in sooner, but I didn’t think it was my place,” his smile twisted bitterly, and Sam remembered a strong hand on his arm, a painful grip, dragging him to the car, shoving him in the backseat, Dean tense and worried on the other side, and Dad fuming, he remembered watching Bobby in the back window as they drove away, disappoint over a baseball game he would never see…

“Bobby,” Sam tried gently, consolingly, but Bobby waved him off again.

“I accept my responsibility in all of it,” he let out a deep breath, one he’d clearly been holding for years, “and I’m steppin in now, cause between the two birdbrains downstairs and you, I got my hands full.”

Sam frowned, confused by the sudden transition from sorrowful to scolding, but reassured by the gruffness. Ornery Bobby was a familiar creature, and Sam had always been more comfortable with the brusque expression of affection it offered. 

“I’m thinkin’ you’re hiding out up here because you’re afraid.”

“Of what?” As Bobby had pointed out, the apocalypse had been averted. All the monsters and mayhem (of a supernatural variety, anyway), and been locked away. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot to be afraid of in the post-apocalyptic world, and, in Sam’s opinion, anything is a basically a joyride in comparison to long term Satanic possession and a few thousand years as an arch-angel chew toy.

Bobby shook his head, there was too much kindness there, and Sam braced himself for impact a second before Bobby’s words hit him.

“Getting’ somebody hurt.” 

Sam’s jaw clenched so tightly that his entire face hurt. He could tell, suddenly, unequivocally, where this conversation was going and he did not, even for a moment, want to follow it down that road. That road was closed, no entry, restricted, dead end. It was taped off, sequestered, locked, key thrown out, buried. No one was allowed to speak of it, and Sam especially couldn’t. 

“Bobby—” he started, and he was amazed that he could force the words from between his teeth. He was startled by the strangely broken cadence of his voice as it tripped over the word. 

“When Karen died, I turned into a grumpy reclusive bastard, who drank too much,” Bobby shook his head ruefully, rubbed the back of his neck, “When your mama died, your daddy turned into a revenge seeking ass, who didn’t give a fuck about anything but killing the bastard who done it—”

To the detriment of everyone who knew him, including his sons, he didn’t have to say it…Bobby shared a look with Sam, who knew, all too well, the cost of his father’s quest.

“—and I know that for me to tell you this, is a damn case of pot callin’ kettle black, but, son, it’d be a damn shame if you followed in either one of our footsteps.”

“You think,” Sam had to clear his throat, confused, uncomfortable, wounded, “You think that this is about Jess.”

It’s been years, and it still hurts to say her name, to imagine for a second the contours of her face, the light of her smile or the tenderness of her skin, her laugh, her sass, her vivaciousness. He can’t remember any of that without also remembering the way that it all went up in flames, the doom that waited for her the second they met, that her loss is his burden and his fault. It always will be. 

“She wouldn’t want you to shut yourself away, Sam.”

Bobby would never know what the hell she wanted, Sam thought viciously, wrathfully, because she died long before he would have met her, and it was Sam’s fault and how dare he—

“What happened to her wasn’t your fault,” Bobby continued, either unaware, or, judging by his countenance, all too aware, of Sam’s internal dilemma, “the bastards that did that are dead and gone. You got a second chance—”

“She didn’t,” Sam spat, the words escaping him before he even realized they were there.

“And it’s not fair,” Bobby nodded, his tone heavy with loss, “But hiding up here isn’t gonna change that. Sam, at the rate you’re goin’ you’re gonna finish this is two years tops, and you’re gonna wake up and you’re gonna have to deal with this,” he taps he chest, “whether you like it or not.”

Sam simply stared. 

“It’s always better to fight on your own terms,” Bobby noted, voice graveled and low, “and it’d be a damn shame if you didn’t fight at all.”

Sam nodded curtly, refusing to meet the older man’s stare. 

“Think about it,” Bobby concluded. 

Sam had spent the rest of the afternoon in something of a stupefied silence. Thoughts, memories, regrets, chased themselves in endless circles through his brain. He’d showed Bobby the archives that he’d cataloged and those that he hadn’t even looked at yet. They’d talked about more mundane subjects. Sam didn’t even have the heart to ask if and when Bobby was going to give Dean a talking to, he couldn’t even imagine, and he was surprised and doubly pained to realize that Dean’s had apparently not been as severe or destabilizing as his own. How pride doth come before a fall, he thought—his mental voice was Satan’s and the thoughts began anew. 

He had followed Bobby’s advice, he had ‘thought about it’ endlessly, annoyingly, frustratingly, constantly, but he had not come up with anything reassuring or stabilizing. 

It feels, suddenly surreal to be unburdening all of these thoughts and feelings to Cas. The story empties out of him; once he begins he can’t stop. Cas listens patiently, brow furrowed in concentration throughout Sam’s recounting and, when he finishes his tale, leans forward with his face in his hands, and a frustrated groan, Cas reaches out a hand and gently lays it upon Sam’s elbow.

The gesture of physical comfort, the demonstrativeness, however slight, is so unexpected that Sam almost jumps clear out of his skin. 

“Thank you,” the former angel offers solemnly, “for sharing your story.”

“Ah, thanks for listening.”

“I appreciate the gesture of trust,” Cas continues, validation is apparently important to him, which makes sense, given that his most recent forays into humanity have revolved around participation in support groups, “you demonstrated in unburdening your woes.” 

Sam snorts despite Cas’ complete sincerity, “Any time.”

“So this is why you have been so distraught?” Cas continues, head tilted to the side, regarding Sam with all of his considerable attention, “because Bobby mentioned Jessica and accused you of ‘hiding’.”

Sam runs his hand through his hair restlessly, “Do you think I’m hiding?” he asks and he hates how much he sounds like an insecure child, seeking reassurance from a parent. He hates, retrospectively, how much he’s been acting like a angst-ridden teenager more generally.

Cas sighs deeply, “I think that if you are, it is not a function of willful seclusion,” he shrugs, “much of what we do, as humans, is not necessarily a function of logic or election,” he looks suddenly far away, contemplative, sad, and Sam wonders what exactly he’s thinking of. He sees Cas look at Dean sometimes, wistfully, longingly, just as often he sees Cas visibly flinch when he is touched, he supposes that Cas’ longing for closeness and his self-defense mechanisms constantly vying against one another must be painful and frustrating. 

“Perhaps, as Bobby suggests, you are ‘hiding’ up here, but that does not negate the fact that you are doing important work, as you said,” he pauses for a moment, thinking, “nor does your decision to remain up here, consciously or unconsciously, working as you do, make you a ‘coward’ of any kind.”

Sam shakes his head, wondering how Cas even picked up on that particular fear, touched that he had. 

“But I do agree with Bobby—”

Sam’s head snaps up and he meets Cas’ piercing gaze, head on, waiting.

“I think it would be a shame for you to hide away up here—you have so much to offer the world, Sam, you are a good person—”

Sam laughs scathingly; he hears Lucifer’s echoing chortle.

Cas looks unendurably sad as he shakes his head at Sam’s doubt, “—you deserve good things. And it would be better for you to choose when to engage with the world, rather than have the world thrust upon you,” his contorts into a half smile that is self-deprecating at best, “the latter can be overwhelming and painful.”

“Yeah, I, yeah…thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome, Sam.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon working together in the library and Sam feels, well, not exactly great, but definitely better; less like he’s about to jump out of his skin. By the time that Dean gets home, he’s actually translated two chapters, and he leaves the library (voluntarily) to help with dinner for the first time in weeks. Dean raises his eyebrows questioningly when Sam trundles down the stairs, and he shoots a look laced with meaning at Cas, who smiles smugly, but he doesn’t say anything. He just rolls up his sleeves, pops a piece of cucumber into his grinning mouth, and tells Sam to chop the carrots. 

Sam had forgotten over the past few weeks what it was to relax—not that he’s had a lot of experiences with that sensation more generally—he had forgotten, somehow, so caught up in his own obsessive thoughts, discomfort, self-flagellation, and worry, how awesome it was to joke with Dean and trade esoteric knowledge with Cas and fool around in the kitchen. He wonders, as he eats, if this is what his dad’s whole life had been: a series of missed moments, so consumed by his own fears and his own quest and his own refusal to face reality that he had missed out on the most important parts of life…of living. It’s a chilling, terrifying thought. He had once again been set on that path, and he’s suddenly thankful to Bobby and Cas for derailing him; he takes a deep breath and a gulp of water. 

He looks at his family sitting around him. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Dean’s easy smile (back in place now that Sam has returned to the land of the living) and twinkling eyes, his ridiculous humor, and his caring nature. He’d missed Cas’ kindness, his strength, his seriousness; he’d missed the way that Cas makes them tea after dinner, or the way Dean contorts his face and moans over dessert (Sam maintains that this show is actually really gross, and he would rather gouge out his own eyes than admit that he had missed his brother being an immature idiot); he’d missed movie nights, and quiet reading on the front porch, and star gazing. He’d missed the new sense of serenity and meaning that this house has brought into their lives. 

When he goes up to bed that night, he takes stock of his room. Bobby had been right, Sam had avoided settling in. He’d done so much to convince Dean to stay, but, more and more, he’s coming to realize that, though he was completely right, he’d also been projecting. Home, as a concept, as an entity, is foreign to Sam. The haven, the home, that he had crafted with Jess was beautiful, but it was short lived, painful, and the agony of it is still raw. His fear of creating a home is just as real as Dean’s, just as complete, just as paralyzing, but, as with many things between the brothers, expressed and experienced differently. Sam had been so dead set on being the rational one, the self-aware one, the one keeping everything together, because it had distracted him from the ways in which he was rebelling and even falling apart himself. 

He takes a deep breath and flops on this bed. He needs some pictures in here. Maybe some new ones, on his desk. He smiles slightly, throws an arm over his face. It’s nice to lie down in his room, to sprawl out his large frame on a comfortable surface, instead of curling up in an arm chair or waking up hunched over a desk. 

Cas, he reflects, had been right: Bobby has the uncanny ability to point out things that you yourself are loathe to see; and the moment of reflection is discomfiting and disorienting, but, sometimes, it’s maybe what you need. 

Sam, upon reflection, doesn’t really want to be the Emily Dickenson of the, but he’s not quite ready to dive headfirst into society picnics either. 

His limbs feel heavy and he turns on his side, face half pressed into his pillow. Pillows, he thinks languorously, are nice…Dean was right about the memory foam. He hears someone, Cas he thinks, close his door. Running water…his brother brushing his teeth. He likes having his family close by, safe. He snuggles deeper, half-asleep, into his blankets.

His last conscious thought before dozing is that he’ll take some books to translate into town tomorrow: something innocuous, easily hidden, it’ll be nice to get out…baby steps…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize PROFUSELY for how long it took to write and post this chapter. It was an incredibly long and difficult semester fraught with all types of personal and professional stressors (that took up nearly all of my available 'free time'). THANK YOU, so incredibly much, all of you, for supporting and encouraging me through that, and thank you, especially, for continuing to stick with this story despite my long hiatus. It's good to be back in writing mode. I would *never* abandon this story, and I should hopefully be on a much more regular posting schedule now that things have settled in the real world.   
> I would love to hear what you think of this most recent chapter!   
> Much love, look for an update in about two weeks.  
> xo


	17. Another Night Slowly Closes In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!!! This chapter includes: gore, violence, and disturbing imagery. Also, Dean and Hell dreams.

Most of the time, when Dean dreams, it’s of fire and brimstone. It’s of the myriad tortures of hell; shit that would make Dante jealous or, perhaps, traumatized, and, yes, Dean’s read Dante—you don’t wage war against all the evil of the universe without doing a little background research. It’s not like Dean needs the literary assist to know exactly what’s waiting downstairs. Hell, Dean has not only lived the nightmare; he has become the nightmare. The sort of creature that haunts dreams and shadows and corners—the type of thing that makes your skin crawl (if you’re still lucky enough to have skin; have not yet been lovingly flayed, piece by piece and consumed by the gaping maw that is the seventh circle), and your eyes weep, and your stomach reject its contents violently. He was something that would make a sinner cry, make a heretic fall to his knees and pray for forgiveness, for mercy; make you flinch and recoil and hide from his gruesome countenance. Sometimes, Dean forgets that that time is past. He forgets his own humanity. He dreams, and, in those dreams, he is, still, the twisted creature that he became over the course of forty years. Alistair had, indeed, carved him into a new animal; a special pet, held upon a pedestal constructed of shattered bone, broken soul, and fear; the most prized monkey in the menagerie. 

He’s back in hell and there’s someone on the rack, waiting for him, pleading for forgiveness, pity, a second chance. It’s wrong, Dean knows that it’s wrong, that he shouldn’t be there. Bone deep and certain, he knows that he belongs at home, with Cas and Sammy. The house with the library, and the garden that Cas is cultivating on the side; with his workshop and the half-finished table he’s laying in with carving round the legs. But he’s not there, and the blade, suddenly in his hands—like magic—is not meant for oak or ash or maple. It’s made for something else entirely. It fits his hand perfectly—it burns against his palm, searing into the flesh, but the burn is good—merited, the pain won’t matter, not as soon as he lays the sharpened edge against the pitiful soul. There’s mounting panic—he knows this isn’t right—but there’s something else too, anticipation perhaps—almost joy—this is what he’s made for; this is the only thing that he’s good for—daddy’s blunt little instrument and by god, the damage he can do…it’s exquisite, art in its own right. He misses this, he wants this, and he twirls the scorching implement between his fingers, he watches his own skin sear and smoke, he smiles, licks his lips, ready. 

The first cut is the deepest, he sings and cackles madly, jubilant. He traces new patterns, carves sigils for protection and health and beauty; for forgiveness and summoning, and love; and he laughs as he narrates their meanings, giving hope and tearing it away until the poor sad soul is a dangling mess. When the weeping no longer serves to entertain, he cuts out the tongue and tosses it casually aside; the garbled choking noises are sibilant in their own way, acoustically pleasing, a satisfying backdrop to his humming. 

His subconscious has got forty years of memory to work with, and he’d be lying if he said that it didn’t make the most out of every second. Waste not, want not. It weaves the reality into infinite configurations—myriad arrangements of disturbing surrealism. 

He’s not sure what’s worse sometimes—waking up with the taste of blood in his mouth and a smile on his face because he enjoyed it and he misses it and what kind of a sick, fucked up bastard is he that he misses torturing the damned? Or the nights he wakes sweating, crying silently because he’s so fucking sorry. They suck. Either way. 

Sometimes, there’s a mirror—in the dreams—he turns away from the rack, startled by something, maybe just compelled by dream logic, and he sees himself—he doesn’t realize what he’s seeing at first. He immediately, by some ingrained habit, recoils from the creature before him, ready to fight and it takes him a moment to realize that, yes, that thing is parroting his every moment, and, yes, its face is, in so far as possible, shaping into something like the shocked horror that he himself is experiencing and reflecting. He realizes in that moment that he is no longer a man, but a monster. And he moves forward peering at himself. His body is contorted beyond any recognition—flesh burned, scorched, and shaped into a new landscape, rotted and black in places, spattered with the blood of today’s special in others. His fingers are longer, curved and clawed, his hair, what’s left of it, grizzled in chunks and grey. His face is taught skin stretched and gaunt, like a corpse, with a rigor mortis smile on one side and a gaping broken jaw on the other. His skull had been broken and bashed, and jutting pieces of bone in the front jar forth like horns. His eyes are pits, and they are widened and black, dead and devoid and demonic. He falls to his knees and covers his face and sobs, the reflection smiles back like a demented jack-o-lantern. When Dean wakes he’s covered in sweat and breathing heavily and covers his face with his hands, partially to hide the afterimages, partially to reassure himself that he’s human. He avoids mirrors the rest of the day. 

Sometimes Dean has a good dream. He’s thankful that he’s able to manage that occasionally at least. He dreams of simple things—a hammock on a beach, a dock on a lake, his mom and a piece of pie. He dreams sometimes of driving, anywhere, nowhere, and, when he turns to look at the passenger seat, sometimes he finds Sam with his hair blowing in the wind, talking about nothing, but, sometimes, he sees Cas, smiling at the passing scenery, or, even better, at him. 

Dean dreams of sex, like any red-blooded American boy, but, he’s not spilling, you fucking perverts—it’s not relevant to the story here…Especially not the part where Cas keeps finding his way into them…As an angel, Cas used to make an appearance, not like literally, when he zapped in, cause that was a fucking gross invasion of privacy, and he and Dean had had a really fucking long, really fucking uncomfortable conversation, wherein Dean had had to explain that he really didn’t want fucking Cas jumping into Dean’s HD porno-vision, and Cas had used the word ‘fornication’ several times and it had just been awkward. Really fucking awkward. Angel Cas made an appearance in Dean’s dreams, after that, every so often, as a figment of Dean’s imagination, which was probably the number one reason that Dean did not want actual angel Cas popping upstairs while Dean couldn’t keep that shit on lockdown. It was bad enough that time that Anna interrupted the angel on demon action. Sometimes, in dream land, Cas would throw Dean up against the wall in that dank alley, and they would pause and instead of beating the shit out of him, zapping him unconscious and dragging him home for house arrest, he would kiss Dean. Hot and rough and in total fucking control, and Dean was so fucking turned on he thought he was gonna come in his fucking jeans just from the coarseness of Cas’ mouth like a fucking teenager. 

Nowadays, it’s human Cas that shows up. The Cas who smiles, and makes weird jokes, and likes to chop vegetables for dinner. The Cas who walks around barefoot and steals Dean’s t-shirts and rolls his eyes hard whenever Dean says something stupid. It’s the Cas who has been tanned by the summer sun, and actually grows a five o’clock shadow, and leaves notes on post-its scattered around the house reminding him to do things, or just randomly depositing knowledge to be picked up later; making PB&J, playing blues records, lying in the grass. That Cas sometimes shows up in Dean’s head, actually, he often shows up in Dean’s head. That Cas smiles at him and kisses him, hungrily, forcefully—with human desperation and human tenderness, but somehow still with angelic fierceness and devotion, and Dean fucking doesn’t want to wake up from that. Fucking ever. 

Of course he does…usually with a hard-on, which he either ignores or takes care of, depending. Then he either wakes up or goes back to sleep, again, depending.

Course, you have those fucking awesome nights where the dream is going fucking peachy and then everything goes fucking terrible, atrociously, horribly wrong, like his life. 

He doesn’t remember Cas pulling him out of hell. Sure, he remembers hell—good times and all that—and he remembers waking up in a pine box in the middle of fucking Illinois. But he doesn’t remember the in-between. He’s not sure whether he’s happy about that or not. On the one hand, he’s never seen that version of Cas—of who Cas used to be or what Cas was for eternity, and he knows now that he never will …sometimes he wishes that, in that moment, he had seen Cas, understood him, beheld his glory or whatever (he actually did think, at one point, in those terms—wishing he had beheld Cas’ glory, before he got really embarrassed and shied away from that use of phrasing even within his own head, because Dean is a fucking pansy ass when it comes to emotional vulnerability and/or flowery language in reference to maybe the great fucking love of his fucking life. When he chides himself about his inability to emote, the voice is always Sam, except, of course, for when it’s Bobby). On the other hand, of course, there’s the fact that he remembers hell, remembers every fucking brutal second of it, and he fucking knows what he was there, what he became, the fucking hideous demonic son of a bitch that he had been, and he’s thankful as fuck that he can’t remember Cas fucking looking at him like that, fucking seeing him like that. He doesn’t know what went down, and he doesn’t fucking remember, but even imagining it, makes him feel sick with shame and straight up terror. That’s probably why he’s never asked Cas about it; why he always avoids the subject. He doesn’t want to know what he did or said, he doesn’t want to make Cas remember their first meeting because he doesn’t want Cas to think about that every time he looks at Dean. Dean can barely look at himself in the mirror most days, if he lost that penetrating blue stare…he wouldn’t, he couldn’t…he just doesn’t want to know—okay?

That’s probably why his brain offers up multiple scenarios for his viewing pleasure. Nothing like having the worst moments of your life reimagined, revisited, and illustrated in all their gory detail. He’s a fucking mess. 

There’s one scenario where Cas takes one look at him and leaves. There’s this perfect moment in which Dean is bathed in holy light, where these warm tendrils of mist touch him and he feels, for a moment, for the first time in what feels like centuries, human, achingly human, but this thing, that is Cas, and he knows, painfully, awfully, that it’s Cas, recoils from him, even as Dean tries to latch on. Cas shies away from the filth, from the dirt, from the disease that is the corrupted remains of Dean Winchester and turns his back on him. Dean screams for him to come back, to please, please, come back, to take him, to save him, to forgive him. It’s too late. It’s dark again, Cas recedes and the moment of comfort, the only one he’d felt or would ever feel again is gone, leaving him there, weeping in the dark, his cries mingling with those of the damned, the sea of agony that was destined to be his tomb, and Dean picks up the blade once more. He is nothing. 

The soul on his rack is lovely really. Quiet, stoic, a challenge. Dean enjoys a challenge. He was quiet once a long, long time ago. Silly little thing. Thinking that he was special, brave. Foolish. Just like this idiot. Dean grins with what passes for his lips and he licks them in anticipation, twirls his blade between his fingers; he’ll learn…Dean will teach him. He turns the fucker into a work of art—slow and steady as he goes, slicing and dicing, flaying his skin, pulling the nails from their beds, severing fingers and toes, slowly, one at a time—this little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy was a fucking whore and this little piggy is going to rot here all the way to forever. Won’t that be fun? He laughs as he throws the digits away. Everything is dust in the wind. 

He watches as muscles twitch, bared to the dismal fiery light, red tendon standing taught and bloody, strings of fat and bundles of nerves. 

“Strong silent type,” Dean croons, a pantomime flirtation from something only half remembered—a movie or a memory, teeth, white, a smile, then blood. He blinks and cants his head to the side, considering the specimen. Heavy breathing, shaking muscles, lovely. 

Dean traces the blade down his chest, taunting. The man shivers, barely held in place by the restraints. Dean continues onward, a light touch, though he knows it must burn. He feels the anticipation in himself. He wants this bastard to break. This is the most fun he has had in ages, his spine fairly tingles with it. 

“Tall, dark, and handsome,” he whispers, “Don’t worry…I know how you like it.”

He makes the cut deep, penetrative, just below the navel and he rips open the bastards belly with a smile on his face. The soul whimpers, convulses, silent, sorrowful tears. Dean plays then. He’s an artist, and he deserves some fun. He turns the fucker inside out, makes ornaments out of internal organs, ornate filigrees on his heart and tiny wings from his lungs. The entrails, the intestines he weaves into a crown and he places it on his own head as he continues to work. He leaves the ribs and spine intact, he doesn’t want the meat suit to totally collapse in on itself. A deflated balloon is not nearly so much fun as a full one still able to be batted about and played with. Faces are always last. Alistair didn’t even have to teach him that, he just knew. You always leave the face for last because you want them to feel it, what you’re doing to them. You want them to smell their piss and shit and blood and filth. You want them to have the scent of their own burning flesh heavy in their nostrils till their sick with it and then you want to shove their vomit down their throats so they can taste their own worthlessness. You leave their eyes because you want them to see their destruction, the intense, disbelieving, surreal sensation of knowing that you are broken beyond repair, that the laws of physics have no meaning, that you can be torn and shredded but you won’t die and there is no escape. You want them to watch their own ruination and you want them to beg you for death. There is no god except for you now because you hold the knife, you determine their fate, and their fate is to be torn and shredded because they are evil and they deserve this. You want them to hear you and hear themselves and know shame at their own weakness, their pitiful screams. The sound of their bones breaking, their skin stretching, their fucking rotting gore falling and splattering. What big eyes you have? All the better to watch your damnation with, my dear. He laughs at his own joke.

It’s always the face last. And Dean has made quite a project of this one, he wants to show off his handiwork. What better audience than the supplier of the crafts?

He reaches out a clawed hand, coated in carnage and filth, and he grabs the jaw of the bastard without even looking, it’s a fierce unyielding grip and he surveys his masterpiece, the wreckage of a damned soul made anew through his hands, made into something beautiful, corrupted, filthy, perfect in its punishment, and he smiles beatifically at what he’s done. 

“What d’you think, pretty boy?” he purrs, “I think you—”

They’re blue. The eyes looking back at him, exhausted, agonized, half-dead with pain and delirium, but they’re blue and piercing.

“No.”

The man on the wrack works his throat, spits blood, wheezes, struggles to form a word, “Dean.”

“No,” he’s numb, his whole body, every inch of it, from the tips of his toes to the spiked protuberances of his crown, tingle with numbness, something deep, deep inside of him, where he can feel anything is wailing, shrieking, breaking into thousands of pieces and curling in upon itself in agony. 

“No,” his hand drops to his side and his breath comes fast, panicked, his knees are weak, “No, no, no, no, nonononono—” and unbroken litany. 

Cas is before him, is strewn all around him. He’s wearing parts of him and he scrambles to divest himself of his intestine crown and thinks he might be sick. He has to put Cas back together. 

He scrambles, madly to put things inside and close Cas up and Cas watches winces, and finally, now, Dean feels wetness on his hands that isn’t blood, but tears, water falling from the corners of Cas eyes, the only piece of him still intact. Dean can’t cry—he’s lost the ability, the right, he’s a demon, and there’s nothing left in him that is human enough to cry, except the tiny section of his self that is weeping for what he’s done. 

“Cas,” he chokes, “Cas, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—what’d I do? God, what’d I do?”

He tries holding Cas and then flinches away, he can’t bear to touch what he’s broken, he can’t bear to let go.

“Why are you here? Cas, why are you here?” as if that will change what he’s done; he broke Cas, he tore him apart; Cas hangs limp, and the stumps that were his fingers twitch as if he would reach for Dean. Dean falls to his knees, covers his face in his hand, and keens like a wounded animal. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he screams, “You’re not supposed to be here,” his claws dig into the rotted flesh of his forehead, his voice breaks, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, boy,” a sinuous voice comes out of the darkness, oily and clinging, “you’ve done beautifully.”

Dean turns, dread running down his spine. Alistair looms over him, a smile gleaming ominously on his cadaverous visage. 

He chuckles, “Michelangelo would be jealous…it’s been centuries since I’ve seen someone turn a fallen angel into such a, ah, um, work of art,” he licks his lips lasciviously with a forked tongue as he surveys Cas’ trembling form. 

Dean growls bitterly, “You made me do this.”

Alistair cants his head, considering the cavernous, viscous opening of Castiel’s chest, before he looks back at Dean, “Tut, tut, now Dean, don’t be so generous,” he smiles again and Dean wants to vomit, to spit in his face, to get Cas the fuck out of here as fast as he can—but he can’t, they’re trapped, “Credit where it’s due.”

Alistair claps, slowly, mockingly. Dean averts his gaze, shamed, fearful, disgusted, but Alastair, languid, rancid, grabs his head, clawed fingers puncturing the tissues of his skill, forcing him to face his handiwork—Cas shaking, bleeding, rotting. Cas’ blood is on Dean’s hands. 

Alistair murmurs in Dean’s ear, closely, like a lover, “I gave you the tools,” he simpers, but this, this is your artwork—your masterpiece.”

“No,” Dean groans, piteously, “No.”

“Oh, yes,” Alistair insists, “my little pupil, you have indeed surpassed your teacher,” he pets Dean’s hair, dotingly, it sends chills racing across Dean’s shoulders, “I mean, I knew you had potential, but this,” he smiles greedily, hungrily at Cas’ mangled body, “this not even I could have dreamed up.”

“Cas,” Dean calls, “Cas I’m sorry.”

Alistair pulls back from Dean then and his leer is chilling, dangerous; “Now, don’t go anywhere.” 

Just like that, Dean is frozen in place, forced to watch as Alistair saunters closer to Castiel.

“No,” he shouts, “don’t you fucking touch him!”

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice somehow clearer and stronger than it had been.

Alistair tilts Cas’ face this way and that, and Cas moans. 

“Get your filthy fucking hands off of him,” Dean growls.

Alistair just smiles, “Hardly anything left to put my hands on is there, my little angel,” he winks, “not since Dean here got through with you.”

Dean struggles viciously against the statement as well as the bonds—his fault, this is all his fault. 

“Dean!”

He has to help Cas, he needs to save him, get him out of here. 

Alistair smiles, and Dean knows instinctively what’s about to happen—he’s been in hell long enough to know what that smile means, the only thing that can make you smile in this fucking place—Alistair is about to go for the one thing that Cas has left, the one thing that Dean hadn’t touched, because he’d been waiting, saving the best for last—his wings. He can’t watch; he closes his eyes tight before Alistair makes the first cut, but he can’t block out the screams, the agonized screams that go on and on, piercing and broken, until Cas can’t scream any longer, until his screams are soundless and the reverberations echo in Dean’s bones. 

“No!” Dean screams, struggling against his bonds, “No!” he hadn’t known what hell was until now, not really. 

“Dean.”

“Cas! Please, no!” Dean never begs, but he’s begging now.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice is firm and close, “Dean, wake up.”

And Dean is aware that demonic restraints that he’s struggling against, feel suddenly like hands on his arms and shoulder; that the blood red flames of hell are dissolving, fading into shadows, and that Cas’ voice is close and strong.

“Dean,” he says, commands, “Dean, open your eyes.” 

And Dean does. He’s not in hell. He’s in his room. Cas isn’t on the rack; he’s not ripped to shreds; he’s whole and healthy and awake.

Dean is aware that he is holding the knife that he keeps under his pillow, even now, ready, just in case, because some habits are hard to break. He’s brandishing that knife inches away from Cas’ face, and Cas, for his part, is staring impassively back at Dean as if the knife is of no consequence. Cas has one hand firmly on Dean’s left shoulder and the other around Dean’s right wrist, blocking the attack. Dean’s fingers loosen, shocked, scared, and the knife clatters to the floor. Dean wants it as far away from himself as possible. Once he releases his grip, his whole body droops, boneless, he’s curling in on himself, crumpling forward, but Cas hands stay firmly on his arms—human strength, where once it had been angelic, but human comfort too, human sympathy, human warmth. 

He doesn’t deserve it.

“Are you okay?” he barks; and Cas looks bewildered, “did I hurt you?”

Cas shakes his head, sharply, “No, you didn’t.”

“Fuck, Cas,” he breathes, voice breaking, relief sweeping over him, cold sweat cooling on his overheated skin, “I’m sorry.”

He covers his face with his hands, ashamed, afraid, half expecting to find Cas’ blood on his hands, “Christ, Cas, I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything, Dean,” Cas reassures him, and Dean wants to tell him to shut the fuck up, that he doesn’t know fucking the half of what Dean’s done, but he remains silent, jaw clenched hard enough to break. 

Dean’s face is dripping sweat and tears leak from the corners of his eyes, burning and hot; his usually steady hands are shaking and his chest is convulsing. Shit, fuck, pull yourself together, fuck.

There is a moment where Ca’s hands releases him and Dean is torn between bereavement and relief—an abandonment both painful and rightfully deserved—he is a monster (how could he have forgotten that? How could he ever have forgotten that?) and Cas shouldn’t be near him, let alone taint himself through contact. Dean is damaged goods, diseased, contaminated, probably fucking contagious—he’s filthy, and he feels that uniquely, his uncleanliness—the stains on his soul that will never wash clean. He knows what he is, what he was…how can Cas ever forget that? The monster he dragged out of hell—how can Cas even fucking look at him? How—suddenly there is an arm around wrapped firmly around his shoulders and another laid gently against his forearm. Dean just fucking loses it, just fucking falls apart because Cas knows, he fucking knows, and suddenly Dean, sturdy, tough, macho Dean can’t pull it together to save his life because Cas, fucking angel of the lord, fucking pristine, fucking too good for him Castiel, doesn’t give a fuck that Dean was demon spawn and he holds him anyway and it hurts.

Cas’ arm is stiff for a moment, but only a moment, as if he’s unsure of himself or, perhaps, unsure of Dean’s response, but then he relaxes into himself, and he pulls Dean into his chest, like that is where Dean belongs—right there in the circle of Cas’ arms, with Cas’ real, honest to god, living heartbeat is steady against him—and Dean’s face, snotty and sweating, damp and all manner of gross pressed firmly against Cas’ neck, tucked into his chin. 

“No,” he tries to protest, because he really doesn’t deserve this; the memory of his nightmare too real and too sharp to let him accept this comfort, “No,” because Dean already dragged Cas down here with the mud monkeys and the filth of humanity, he doesn’t have to sully him further; he doesn’t deserve comfort after everything he’s done, he doesn’t deserve happiness or sanctuary or whatever the fuck else. He struggles, half-heartedly to pull away, his muscles uncoordinated, disobedient and seeming unwilling to resist Cas’ touch—fucking traitors, the whole fucking lot of the of them. He doesn’t deserve this he doesn’t—but Cas is relentless, firm, strong, unmovable as mountains—warm and safe like home, and he rubs soothing circles into Dean’s shoulder blades with one and cradles his head with the other, as if Dean is precious and not the demonic, undeserving, piece of fucking shit that he actually is. 

He speaks into Dean’s hair, as Dean takes deep shuddering gasps of air, trying to contain himself. Cas’ breath is warm and his voice is as deep and gruff as ever, rising and falling in a soothing cadence, rhythms that Dean’s ears don’t recognize, but his body does, or maybe it’s his soul, either way, bit by bit, he relaxes against the steady thrum of Cas’ heart and the rise and fall of his chest—whole, solid, steady—it grounds him, shelters him. He’s here—Dean’s fists his hand in Cas’ shirt, pulls him closer—here—his other hand clutches at Cas’ side, feels the slide of rib and muscle as he croons—whole, alive, here. 

Enochian poetry is traced into his skin, angelic lullabies spoken in into his hair, gentle fingers smoothing against his back.

“Hush,” Cas says, “hush, dear one, I am here.”

Dean whimpers at the tone, the sheer devotion in it; it goes straight to his heart and resonates outward, filling his chest, vibrating deep in his bones. They stay like that for a long time; Dean sheltered against Cas’ shoulder, safe in the circle of his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this being late and not especially long--the next chapter will pick up immediately where this one leaves off--it will also be followed by some lighter topics, themes, and domesticity. THANK YOU so much for reading this, commenting on it, and taking the time and energy to stick with my irregular posting. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it! Feedback is always appreciated. xo


	18. Feel No Sorrow, Feel No Shame

It was only by chance that Castiel had even heard Dean that night. He couldn’t sleep: a not uncommon condition of his humanity. Castiel practices consistent night time rituals. In theory, he is aware of the ways that circadian rhythms work, that repetition and routine, certain enzymes certain practices, can be used to aid and induce sleep; indeed there are almost infinite variations that he could try, but his sleep continues to be elusive and troubled—still he perseveres. 

He puts on pajamas, which he increasingly finds comfortable as his wounds have sealed and settled. He has his own sleep pants in cotton and flannel, which are soft against his legs, comforting in some strange way. It no longer feels intolerable and abrasive to wear a shirt—he several which are designated (by corporations, designers, and presumably the individuals who organize clothing racks at Target) as clothing appropriate for sleeping in, but he prefers to wear an old t-shirt that once belonged to Dean. It had been given to him, he supposes, ‘to borrow’ when he had first fallen to earth and had nothing of his own. There is something about that gesture that makes this article of clothing infinitely precious to Castiel. It is a very peculiar thing that something so simple—a few pieces of fabric, stitched together, a bit of dye, some small amount of money—should provoke such an odd feeling of warmth within his chest. This shirt has lived with Dean, has covered his back on warm summer days, has travelled across the country in a battered duffle bag, has been spattered with blood and sweat, has sheltered Dean against the elements, and has changed as Dean has grown—a thread fraying at the hem, a hole in the right shoulder seam. It’s soft and it’s grey and it is clearly worn, but Dean gave it to Castiel, who wears it now on his own shoulders—he knows that it is ridiculous and foolish, but it is as if were Dean’s arms around him, even when Dean’s cannot be, when Castiel cannot bear human touch, when Castiel is fearful of the world. This small token brings him comfort—which, even in small measure, is precious in his new life. The shirt no longer smells of Dean, though it had the first day he’d worn it, but of Castiel—which is a strange thing, to have a body, to have a scent. 

Castiel was afraid that Dean would want it back, the thought made him strangely shaky, uncertain, but Dean had seen him wearing it one night. He’d noticed in the wake of a nightmare, Castiel had sweat clean through it, and Dean had taken it to throw into the hamper. He’d squinted at the article in his hands, and peered closely at Castiel’s face, and Castiel had felt oddly, as if caught doing something illicit and he clenched his fist tight. He’d not expected to see it again, but, when Dean had next done the laundry, he’d returned the t-shirt to Castiel’s room, with a shrug, ‘You should keep it; you wear it better than me anyway,” he’d winked, and Castiel had felt his face warm, more in response to Dean’s smirk and this small gift than anything else. 

Castiel makes himself a cup of hot tea in the evenings (chamomile or peppermint), and reads a book of his choosing (most recently, L'Étranger by Albert Camus). He retreats to the quiet of the porch, or, increasingly, the solitude of his bedroom. He has come to know a strange, almost primal satisfaction in having a place that is explicitly, undeniably his, where he can retreat, where he can be safe—he’s never really felt that need before. As an angel he’d experienced at times a vague longing, a sense of restlessness (even more so once he’d begun to spend time on earth, time with the Winchesters), but he had never this abiding desire for a home, a place to settle and return to, something that, despite his better knowledge—he who has seen cities razed to the ground, empires crumble and fall, the earth itself move and transform almost beyond recognition—feels permanent. It was not until he had this space, this place to call his own, that he fully understood the human need to build a home, to settle, to carve out a niche in a great, wide, ever changing, unpredictable universe. A place into which you could draw that which was most important to you—those who were most important to you—close, careful, near, as safe as you could make them—comforted in their nearness. There is something to be said for having, within that space, a tiny place that is just his, his very own. Castiel does not own much—he has acquired some clothing, is slowly collecting a variety of tattered books, second and third hand, tattered, but clearly much loved, some furniture—but property is a novelty to him, startling and strange; as is the luxury of a room that he can go to when all things become overwhelming, when he craves quiet and solitude—He cannot fly away to a mountain top, to a distant galaxy, to the dull, pleasant weight of the deep sea, but he can come here to nest, as it were, to roost, to rest, and somehow that is, in its own way, much more satisfying. 

Castiel meditates before he sleeps; when his eyes can no longer focus on the words on the page, his vision blurry with tiredness, (the first time that this had happened, Castiel had almost panicked, had worried that something was terribly wrong, that his vessel, no, his body was failing; Sam, and Castiel is infinitely grateful for this, had only laughed a little bit, explaining that fatigue could have physiological symptoms, that sore eyes and blurry vision were normal, were in fact, his body’s way of telling him to, in Sam’s words, “give it a rest, get some shut eye,” it was a signal much like the noises his stomach makes when he goes too long without eating, or the way that his knee gives a dull throb when he sits too long in a certain position). Meditation is easiest in this time when he is between sleep and waking; he settles himself upon the floor, legs folded, spine straight, hands resting lightly upon his knees and he centers himself. It is not the same as it was when he was a celestial being, when he could push himself outward and pull himself inward infinitely, when he could merge and blend with the energy around him; when he could reach out to his sisters and brother and feel instantaneously connected to the divine; he can no longer cultivate his grace, close and tight to himself. It’s…different, wholly different, but there is something familiar about it nonetheless…sitting and listening, first to his surroundings; the cricket song and the floorboard creaks, to the rustle and thump down the hallway that is Sam organizing the library, or the soft footsteps just beyond the door that could belong to no one but Dean. Castiel sits and listens until the world dwindles, sharpens to his heartbeat and his breath, the blood rushing through his veins, the air coming into and out of his lungs, steady as the tide. His focus moves inward, to the way it feels to be, to exist, in this form, in this body, which belongs to no one but himself. He hears the steady drum of his pulse and realizes that the heart that beats in his chest is the rhythm of his life’s blood and…that is in its own way miraculous. 

Castiel eventually resurfaces, feeling more at peace. He will occasionally experience a twinge in his neck or a stiffness in his knee, but his mind, his soul, he supposes, feels quitter, calmer. Though, he will admit that, the first few times he attempted to meditate as a human being, he very nearly had a panic attack, frightened by his heartbeat, trapped and tethered and fearful of his mortal coil, unable to get enough air. Dean had helped him through when he’d begun to hyperventilate and shake. He’s not sure, still, who had been more frightened in that moment. Dean had been convinced that Castiel had either been shot or was having a heart attack, Castiel was unable to express what was happening beyond the fact that he felt like his skin was on fire and he very nearly broke Dean’s nose when he tried to reach out to steady him. It was Sam who recognized that he was having a panic attack, that he needed to regulate his breathing—if Castiel had been capable of speech in that moment, he would have expressed the fact that this had all been started by his attempt to regulate his breathing. The most he could muster at the time was a glare, and a desperate and despondent use of the brown paper bag that Sam had offered. All in all, it had not been a good night. He has gotten better at breathing past his fear, at settling into his bones instead of feeling as if he’s trapped inside of them, fighting tooth and nail against the cage of his ribs, scrapping, clawing to get out, to escape and fly off into the night. His perseverance has borne fruit: he’s better able to finish his meditation, feeling tranquil and collected, relatively at peace…it never lasts particularly long, but he supposes that it’s a start. 

Castiel brushes his teeth, which he finds oddly soothing and methodical. He enjoys the “minty freshness” that settles on his tongue. He finds mouthwash unpleasant, but trusts the recommendation of the American Dental Association, and, though floss at first made his gums bleed, he’s grown to tolerate the sensation. He does not think that he would particularly enjoy the experience of having drills inserted into his mouth in order to repair enamel damage; he’s willing to make small sacrifices to delay, if not completely avoid, that fate. 

It’s once his nighttime rituals are completed that the trouble begins. Castiel lies in bed and there is no story to occupy him, there is no silence of mind and body, it is just Castiel, alone. His mind wanders—it wanders far and wide, to places he would rather it not go—before being abruptly pulled back to his world of flesh, to the stinging agony of his spine, to the dull ache of his wings—wings that are no longer there, but sometimes tingle and singe, like jolts of electricity in his shoulder blades, like fire and blood in the ether. He knows that they are not there, that they are irrevocably gone, that they were torn from his being, he is graceless and human and he vividly remembers that agony. He knows…but, at night, alone he feels their absence and their presence both, in almost every cell of his body. His skin is too tight against his bones; the sheets on his bed, so soft and smooth, itch and irritate, abrasive; he pushes them off, but then his flesh feels like an exposed wound, open to the sting of the air. It does not matter how he twists or turns, every position is an agony, and there is no relief to be found, every movement or shift makes it worse. 

When first Castiel had fallen, he thought that it could not get worse. Truly that was foolish, tempting the fates. He had been cast out of heaven, and he had never known such pain as that, but there had also been comfort. Dean had dressed his wounds; every night, and it had hurt, oh, how it had hurt, but there was softness in that gesture, there was sympathy, there was kindness—there was a type of connectedness in that act of care and comfort that Castiel had never known or experienced in all his millennia, in any of his forms, and though he had felt trapped, and pained, though his newly form fleshed was raw and broken, though it was sheer agony to be touched, there was something of Dean’s soul in the hands he lay upon Castiel’s wounds; there was something new, and something familiar, and it had spread from Dean’s fingertips, deep into Castiel’s flesh, into his being. It had been the only thing, in this wretched mortal prison, that had felt good, right. 

Castiel’s wounds no longer require such care. They do not need to be dressed, nor do they necessitate careful ministrations They are not wounds now, so much as they are scars, and it is more important that they are exposed to the air; that Castiel stretches the muscles and makes sure that the skin, which will inevitably want to tighten, remains supple in so far as possible. He applies creams and salves to his back himself, sometimes Sam will aid him in the mornings when Dean has already left for work, but it is…different when Sam helps him…his touch is impartial, kind, and gentle, but it does not settle and unsettle Castiel the way that Dean’s hands do.

The warmth of Dean’s palms against Castiel’s newly made skin may have been the only thing that enabled him to sleep in the early days of his humanity. Indeed, it is only when Dean is close by that Castiel is able to find peace in his rest, comforted by his presence, his proximity, his solidarity, his warmth of body and spirit…but that is not something that Castiel is willing to ask of Dean, nor is it a sacrifice that Dean should be forced to make for Castiel’s benefit. His wounds are healing, and Dean should no longer feel that he is required to care for Castiel that way. It is not his responsibility to do so. 

Nevertheless, Castiel is restless at night. He knows what awaits him when he closes his eyes, if he can eventually become comfortable enough in his own skin to close them…that foresight, the anticipation of fresh horrors and psychological trauma do not exactly precipitate a pleasant transition into somnolence. Sometimes, Castiel will remain in his bed and persevere; he will eventually fall asleep, from exhaustion if nothing else (the body, as he has learned, clearly has its limits), and as for what dreams may come, well there is the rub, as they say…Castiel will awaken, undoubtedly, from some fresh new horror, shaken, sweaty, perhaps alone, though his unbidden cries rouse Dean and Sam from their slumbers as often as not. He sleeps better after Dean has sat with him awhile, and he feels both shame and guilt for the attachment and need he that roils so strongly within him, the weakness he exhibits; he who was once an Angel of the Lord, reduced to a shaking, sweating, weeping, pitiful creature, desperate for human touch for human company. He tries not to dwell on how far he has fallen. He tries not think how far there is yet to fall when Dean wipes away the sweat and the sorrow from his brow, when Castiel clings almost covetously to the gentle hand of friendship laid upon him. It does not do to dwell upon his urgings towards Dean, to imagine what cannot be. So Castiel tries to sleep and he tries to carry on, and he tries to accept with dignity that which he has and that which is beyond him.

On this particular night, Castiel is too uncomfortable to sleep, to stay in his bed. Sam believes that he has the angelic equivalent of phantom limb syndrome. Castiel remains dubious, unsure if the transition from a celestial being made of light and divinity—a being that would, in his present form, be unknowable to his own senses—to something corporeal is quite the same as removing a limb. Regardless, it sometimes brings him peace to walk around the house, to move, and, if all else fails, to sit outside on the porch or in the grass—still verdant and green, lush with summer’s fecundity—the burden of his missing…aspects…is alleviated here. He feels less confined, as if, were he still possessed of his grace, were he able to manifest his wings, he would be able to do so free and encumbered in such an open space. That sense of freedom, the lack of restriction allows him to calm, to settle, it soothes the ache in his shoulders and the burn of his skin marginally.

Castiel sits there, in the center of the lawn, eyes closed and drowsy, in the darkness for a while; he breathes deeply the scent of earth and dampened greenery, rain perhaps; with the sound of cicadas all around, until he thinks that he might be able to sleep. He pulls himself up to his feet and walks quietly back into the house. 

The lights are off and the house is nearly silent. Sam and Dean have long since gone to sleep. Castiel treads carefully in the darkness, mindful not to trip or bump into anything that could make noise, he skips the creaky third step as he pads his way up the stairs.

Dean’s room is directly across from Castiel’s own, and he sleeps, always, with the door partially open. Though Dean offers myriad rationales for this habit, Castiel knows that is so that Dean can watch over both he and Sam in the night. Dean loves having his own room and his own home, yet he feels uncomfortable being so isolated from those who might need him. Castiel smiles slightly, pausing on his way to his bed, at the kindness and protectiveness that Dean gives so freely, that he tries to cover up, and, that nevertheless bleeds through his every gesture and word. There’s a warmth in Castiel’s chest again, and that is when he hears Dean’s low moan. 

It sounds as if he’s in pain, and Castiel hesitates for only a moment, until Dean calls his name, before he bursts into the room.

Castiel is not sure what he expected; he had instinctively fallen into a fighting stance upon crossing the threshold, wary and ready to combat any number of evils whether they be supernatural or human. His relief at finding no palpable threat is for a moment, overwhelming; but it is quickly replaced by a new type of concern. Dean is clearly in the throes of a nightmare, struggling against imaginary restraints; he’s sweating, his sheets are a tangled mess on the floor, and his face is contorted into an expression of pain and horror. This time, Castiel does not hesitate: he’s across the room and at Dean’s side as quickly as his legs will carry him there. 

He tries to rouse him, to no immediate avail, and, when Castiel reaches out to touch Dean, his immediate response, born of years as a hunter, is to pull a concealed knife on his assailant, real or imaginary. 

Castiel blocks the weapon with relative ease, he’s known Dean for long enough to know that he would not be able to sleep without a weapon within easy reach—would feel too exposed, and unsafe, anxious without a gun or a knife at the ready—so he’s subconsciously, at least, prepared for something of this sort. Castiel may no longer possess angelic strength, or ‘mojo’, but he maintains the reflexes and skills of millennia as a warrior of heaven, and, though Dean is strong, Castiel is quick and well-practiced. Dean bears down, and Castiel deflects him, all the while trying to wake Dean, who calls Castiel’s name with such desperation that Castiel understands, perhaps for the first time, what it means to feel your heart break—there is a strange, sharp twisting sensation in his sternum, with an accompanying hollowness in his abdomen, and he wants Dean to come back, so that he can see that Castiel is here, that there is nothing wrong, that he is okay.

When Dean does open his eyes, he looks stricken, horrified, and Castiel isn’t sure what to do—he’s never…how can he help, how can he heal when all he has are his two hands and this meager form at his disposal—but he doesn’t let go of Dean, not when the knife clatters to the floor, not when his face crumples in upon itself; a collapsing star—he will not let Dean drown in this pain. 

“Are you okay?” Dean’s voice is scraped raw, and Castiel feels again that sharp sting in his chest, radiating out across his shoulders, “Did I hurt you?”

Castiel’s jaw clenches because this foolish, foolish man is clearly the one in pain and yet, of course, he would be worried about others…more than that he is so clearly terrified, the type of near paralyzing fear in his eyes that Castiel has not seen in a long while. Dean is afraid of what he’s done, afraid that he’s hurt someone.

Castiel tries to reassure him with words, “You’ve done nothing wrong,” but Dean flinches, as if he knows some undeniable truth, a deep and abiding sign, and he falls forward, broken, lost.

Castiel remembers Dean’s soul, when first he beheld it, beautiful, but injured, beaten, hurt and confused. Suddenly he knows what to do, he releases his grip on Dean’s arms, just barely, just long enough for Dean to recoil still further, before Castiel takes a breath and wraps his arms around Dean, drawing him close, pulling him tight to his chest the way he had, so very long ago, cradled Dean’s soul in the heart of his grace, sheltering, healing, protecting. Dean struggles against him, just as his soul once did. Well does Castiel remember that flight, Dean’s soul simultaneously reaching towards Castiel, holding on for dear life, at the same time, flashing with fear, with self-loathing, with sensations of impurity, corruption, punishment, struggling to get away. 

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved,” he had said once to Dean, long ago, having witnessed the brightness of his soul, the beauty of his being, his very essence, incredulous that such a man could not see his own worth…Now in this room, sheltered by shadows, the warmth and solidity of this man, this foolish, precious, wonderful, beautiful, man, cradled against his chest, Castiel wishes that Dean knew, that Dean could see that of anyone, of anything, he is the most worthy of saving, the most worthy of forgiveness, redemption, love. Castiel holds tighter to Dean, willing that sensation, that surety, to pass from his chest into Dean’s. 

Almost of their own volition, Castiel’s hands move against Dean’s skin, soothing circles, and abstract patterns, protective sigils, and poetry, endearments he would not dare to utter aloud. He hums against Dean’s hair, an old song in Enochian, anther in Italian, Latin.

“Hush,” he tells him, gently, his own voice almost unrecognizable, gruff and spent, “hush, dear one, I am here.”

You are safe, beloved one, you are safe. 

Dean whimpers, a broken, wounded sound, but he draws himself closer into Castiel’s embrace, and it’s all Castiel can do to protect him, but perhaps it’s enough.

Dean’s back expands and contracts, expands and contracts beneath Castiel’s palm. His thin t-shirt is damp with sweat, the flesh beneath radiates heat, and his muscles convulse and jump around each inhale, each choked sob. His breathing is static, staggering, erratic. Sharp gasps escape him, damp puffs of air into Castiel’s neck, even as Dean struggles to remain silent, to contain his suffering. 

His body is taut, pulled tight, protectively around itself, a childish gesture from a man who grew up too fast. Castiel can do little more than hold him, wrap himself protectively, soothingly, around the tightly wound coil of Dean’s sorrow and fear. He feels the loss of his wings anew in this moment; for the first time since their loss, he yearns, not to fly away, nor to stretch them out and ease their ache, he wishes that he had wings so that he could envelop Dean still further into his embrace, wrap them both into a protective cocoon of warmth and safety and light and energy, and stay there safe, protected, eased, until the darkness passes. He knows that this is impossible, but the instinct is so intense, so strong, that he must force himself to swallow around its potency and focus instead on the means of comfort at his disposal.

Castiel knows that this moment of anguish, of vulnerability, is fleeting at best, that, in few minutes at most, Dean will pull himself together, inward, and away. Castiel knows, and that knowledge conjures within him a deep and abiding sorrow. He does not want Dean to pull away, to remove himself. He does not want Dean to put in place the mask of composure and joviality; the façade of vivaciousness and levity and poise, the stoic front that hides this agony—this agony that comes from all he has done to help others, to save those in need, to protect those he loves. Dean cares so fully, so deeply for the fallen and the injured; does he not deserve the same courtesy? Does he not deserve more? Castiel wants Dean here, with him, where he can help him, protect him, be with him, care for him the way he ought to. The strangest sensation claws its way up his throat, through his arms, across his sternum, a righteousness that he has not felt since he fell, a sense and clarity of purpose that he has lacked for years suddenly crystalizes within him—he cannot amend the hurts of the past but he can, in this moment, be here, and, in so far as possible, protect Dean from their repercussions. He can make Dean feel as precious as Dean has made him feel. 

Dean’s breathing lengthens, evens; his exhales still staggered, but his muscles loosening just slightly, just enough. Castiel’s fingers trace idly at the crest of Dean’s shoulder. 

Beloved one, he writes, as he would never say aloud. Still he swallows hard, frightened by his boldness, given pause by his infraction. 

Be not afraid, he traces against the sweat damped skin of Dean’s neck, and Dean shivers almost imperceptibly beneath his ministrations. 

Castiel allows his free hand to dance across the terrain of Dean’s back, so different from the scarred and pitted hideousness that is his own landscape of flesh—Castiel knows that his back will never pass as beautiful to human or angel; his arms, too, are more the stuff of nightmares than skin and bone; his wounds are a cruel grotesque mockery of the creature of light that he once was, part of his punishment, his exile, his crime, and he has learned to feel both pride and shame because of his scars—but Dean’s back is warm and solid, and Castiel knows every muscle and bone, every freckle and scar, every cell and atom (even if he can no longer perceive these last). Castiel writes poems into Dean’s spine, and stories into his shoulder. He etches protective sigils against his ribs where once he carved them into bone. He lacks that power now, but his human hands hold their own strength, their own grace, if they can bring Dean even a measure of comfort, a simple sensation of peace in this chaotic universe.

There was a time, not so very long ago, when Castiel could have eased Dean’s pain with a simple touch—a gentle tendril of his grace, to brush against Dean’s soul, to ease his sleeping mind; to turn those dreams of pain and suffering into something placid, pleasant—the memory of two small boys chasing each other along a shoreline; the feel of engine grease, sweat, and satisfaction at a job well done; the warm light of a summer sun and the promise of the open road, freedom, and Dean’s own version of flight. 

There was a time not so very long before that, when Castiel would have let Dean suffer through the nightmares. His face heats uncomfortably at the memory. It was important for his mission that Dean remember hell, that Dean fear it. What did it matter to him, a celestial being, a warrior of god, if one human could not rest peacefully through the night? If his dreams were hellfire and brimstone and tortures of the worst kind imaginable? What did it matter to him? Foolish. Selfish. Castiel is ashamed. He knows what Dean dreams about—he knows the map of his nightmares, their shape and texture and solidity, and he would do anything to spare him, if only that power was still available to him. How could he have been so callous? He rests his cheek gently against the crown of Dean’s head, his hair is matted from sleep, dampened with sweat; it tickles against Castiel’s cheek. 

He wishes that he still possessed the power to intervene. He knows the agony of human dreams, the capacity for longing, for the macabre, for the torment born of your own wishes and weakness and memory and fear. He has seen Dean’s dreams, he has experienced his own nightmares, and he wishes, oh, how he wishes that he retained even a speck of his grace as well as the capacity for empathy that has been granted to him along with his human soul. He sighs against Dean’s hair, and contents himself with offering the human kindness and the human contact at his disposal, ever mindful of the way in which Dean’s calloused palms and comforting words have served as a healing balm to his troubled soul in the dead of night, soothing his spirit, his body, and his mind, in ways that Castiel would never have believed possible, had never imagined or experienced in any facet of his life, in any realm of the universe. He hopes that he is doing it right; he hopes that he can give Dean what he has given to Castiel; safety, serenity, peace, warmth.

Dean takes a deep breath; another one. His exhales shudder, and Castiel knows that this moment of closeness is nearing its end, and he tightens his hold on Dean shoulders and tries to, without word or action or angelic grace, communicate the depth of his affection for this man, this person who is so much more than he thinks; who is everything, who is beautiful and courageous and kind; who has been Castiel’s charge, his puzzle, his hero, his friend, his caretaker, his family. He tries to convey this feeling of warmth through his hand on Dean’s shoulder, through the press of his cheek against Dean’s head, through the grip of his palm on his back.

I pulled you from Hell once because I was told to, because it was a mission from god, he wants to say, but I would battle the hordes of hell again, even as I am now, for you. You are worth that; you are worth all that I was and all that I am, you are worth everything. 

Dean pulls back. Castiel’s arms are empty, his chest suddenly cold. 

Dean’s face is dark and haunted, shadowed, strangely embarrassed; did he think that Castiel would judge him for this outpouring? Castiel tilts his head, considering the man before him. Dean clears his throat and shifts backwards on the bed, towards its edge, turning to his side so that he is in profile, and Castiel is left to regard him from a distance, which, though small, feels agonizingly far. Castiel flexes his fingers and balls them into fists, once, twice, three times; ‘holding his tongue’ as they say, as he waits for Dean to speak, for Dean to shift away, to tense and put up all of his carefully constructed barriers and walls, however fragile they may be in this moment. 

Dean rubs a hand across his face, and Castiel misses his warmth, feels as if Dean is moved far from him, light-years away, though it’s only a distance of inches. He yearns to pull Dean back into his arms once more, but he cannot. He straightens his spine.

Dean clears his throat, won’t look at Castiel, won’t meet his eyes. It hurts.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks again, and Castiel is not sure whether he finds this need for reassurance endearing or grating.

“I’m fine,” he replies, carefully, directly.

“Are you sure?” Dean persists, his tone sharp, like he is interrogating a witness, like he senses a lie. Castiel realizes then that Dean is still afraid, still haunted, not fully returned to this world; the nightmares tendrils insidious and cloying upon his psyche. 

Castiel exhales slowly and fixes his stare firmly upon Dean’s profile, willing him to face him, knowing that Dean can feel the weight of his stare, waiting for him to succumb to it.

“Are you?” he asks simply. He is aware that this question is anything but.

Dean recoils and, there it is, turns to look at Castiel, startled, fearful, as if Castiel still had the power to visit Dean’s dreams, and Dean is deeply, desperately frightened of what he may have seen. 

“I’m fine, Cas,” he replies.

Castiel feels his own eyebrows reach his hairline; perturbed by the lie.

“Do you really wish to insult my intelligence that way?”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumps, and he glares at Castiel, but Castiel refuses to be cowed by that look, refuses to avert his eyes; and, after a second, it is Dean, who slumps forward slightly, exhausted, rubbing his hand again at his face.

“It was just a bad dream,” he mutters, trying to be flippant, Castiel supposes, but missing the mark by a wide margin; Dean sounds exhausted, weary. Castiel would do almost anything to remove that tiredness, that suffering from Dean’s voice, “Makin’ a big deal out of nothin’.”

Castiel blinks slowly, “A wise friend once told me that dreams aren’t real, but they can certainly feel that way,” he regards Dean’s face, a study in shadows, swathed in darkness, soft greys and muted blacks across a field of battered exhaustion, “Whatever it was that you saw, Dean, it wasn’t truth.”

Dean laughs, but it’s a sad, broken thing, hollow and void, “Might as well have been.”

“It might help you to talk about it,” he offers, waiting, patient.

Dean stares at him then, a furrow between his brows, consternation on his features; something wary around the creases of his eyes, “Does it help you?”

Castiel is unsure if the remark is meant to be cutting, or, if beneath the sharp tone, Dean is genuinely curious. Dean lashes out sometimes, like a wounded creature when he is afraid, when he is hurt, as like to hurt himself as those trying to care for him…more likely to hurt himself. 

Castiel inhales deeply, and answers honestly, “Sometimes.”

He remembers his dreams of hell; of death, of destruction and devastation, of pain and suffering, torture, immobility, his wings burning; his dreams of wanting, longing, joy torn away. 

“Sometimes not,” he continues evenly, “but the offer remains…should you wish to discuss it with me.”

Dean says nothing; his jaw works silently, and his shoulders are tense. Castiel wants to touch them, to knead at the muscles until they are soft and pliant, to pull Dean back into the circle of his arms when he fits, where it is warm, and Castiel can shelter him with the feeble mortal powers at his disposal. Instead, he waits, his fingers flex wide, taut, before he clenches them into a fist again; tendons, ligament, bone, flesh; tense and release, tense and release…remain still, remain vigilant, here and now with Dean; here and now. 

“What were you dreaming about, Dean?” he asks, quietly, humbly. He asked this question of Dean before; once, when he knew the answer; when he was goading and enigmatic, when he had knowingly allowed Dean to suffer his nightmares for the higher purpose of keeping the Righteous Man in check. That is not why he asks the question now; it is not with the arrogance of an angel; it is not with an ulterior motive; it is not because he wishes to raise Dean’s hackles, to put him at the mercy of Castiel’s supposed omniscience. All these years later, all the nights and days, the trials and tribulations, the universes and evolutions and strife and joy between that moment and this, Castiel asks because Castiel loves Dean from the very core of his being—and of all the things that have changed, this one thing has remained steady as the tide, the only solid thing in Castiel’s existence; that which has grown stronger, clearer since he fell—and Castiel would gladly throw himself into the fiery inferno of Hell itself would it spare Dean further pain. Castiel asks because he can no more wipe away Dean’s nightmares than he can fly; he cannot heal Dean’s wounds of body or mind any more than he can heal his own; but he can, in this moment, stay with Dean, be with him, in whatever capacity he is allowed, whatever capacity he is tolerated, and he can ask Dean what he dreamt of, because it is the only thing that he has to offer in the way of healing this ache. So Castiel asks, and Castiel waits.

And Dean, against all odds, does not remain silent; he does not scoff and tell Castiel to ‘fuck off’ or ‘just go back to bed.’ He turns to look at Castiel, with wide eyes, gleaming in the darkness, something bright in their depths. It reminds Castiel of the way that Dean’s soul shines like the summer sun. Dean stares at him, brows slightly raised, and Castiel knows that Dean remembers the last time that Castiel asked after his dreams as clearly as he does. Castiel is unsure what he feels as Dean takes him in, as if he’s never seen him before; there is a strange churning in his stomach and he cannot distinguish between shame or fear or even hope, but he does not look away, he keeps his face as impassive as he can and he stares back.

Dean licks his lips, Castiel clenches his fingers deep into his palm; he can feel his nails bite into the skin; it hurts, but it distracts him from the jumpy feeling in his stomach, the anticipation and the fear. 

Dean clears his throat, and Castiel breathes again (unaware that he had been holding it); “I, ah…,” he shakes his head, “I’m not gonna bore you with all the grisly details, but it was Hell, Cas…was dreamin’ of hell.”

Castiel inclines his head, remorseful, “I had feared as much,” he confesses, “I am sorry; that cannot have been pleasant.”

Dean laughs, short and humorless, and he rubs a hand against the back of his neck, still clearly shaken, “Yeah, well, never is.”

Dean looks away, fiddles with the ring on his finger, and Castiel watches him closely, absorbing the details: the exhaustion under Dean’s eyes, the stubble across his face, the ashen pallor to his skin, the way he is both exhausted and rippling with anxiety, restless energy he cannot dispel.

Castiel bites his own lip, glances down at his own hands; they rest upon his folded knees: human, fragile, scarred, broken, raw; they are not as strong as he would like, but nor are they useless; he watches the muscles shift beneath the skin as he flexes his fingers once more.

“I dream of it, too,” he murmurs; he can feel Dean’s gaze coming to rest upon his bowed head; its weight is a heavy thing upon his wingless shoulders, “Hell,” he clarifies

It is silent for a moment, as if Dean needs time to gather his thoughts in the wake of such a revelation. Castiel keeps his head bent, as if in prayer, watching the way his hands move under his direction: flex and release; flex and release.

“You do?” Dean asks, his voice rough, surprised, perhaps even sad.

Castiel looks up at him through his eyelashes, faces Dean’s startled eyes with the full weight of his intention, “Often.”

“Shit, that’s—Jesus, Cas,” Dean rubs a hand across his face, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your doing.”

Dean shakes his head, and looks away, as if Castiel is wrong, as if Castiel knows nothing, as if Dean is guilty. Castiel cannot stand that look upon his face; cannot stand Dean—who gives so much and asks so little, who is smart and loyal, strong and caring, whose soul is brighter and more beautiful than any Castiel has ever seen—he cannot stand Dean looking so sorrowful, so remorseful, so he reaches out his human hand, and he lays it gently upon Dean’s forearm, and when Dean stares at Castiel as if he’s lost his mind, as if he’s undeserving of contact or touch or sympathy, Castiel does not move away. Castiel meets Dean’s eyes and he squeezes his fingers gently, reassuringly, repeating with touch, rather than words, “I am here, beloved one, do not be afraid.”

“I hurt you, Cas,” Dean almost whispers into the darkness; he turns away, to hide his face, “I…I was in hell and I…you were one of the souls on the rack,” he swallows, his voice is bitter, each word choked, “I tore you apart, just like all the others, more, even, cause you were quiet, and I…fuck, I wanted to hear you scream,” he pauses, exhales raggedly, and bites his lip, Castiel maintains his hold on Dean’s arm, “I didn’t know it was you until the end, I swear, I didn’t, I…tried to put you back together, but I…and Alastair…he said you were my masterpiece, cut your wings off…I couldn’t stop him…I couldn’t…”

The knife in Castiel’s chest, twists, tight and painful, jaggedly at the words. Hel moves closer and lays a hand gently upon Dean’s shoulder, “It was a dream, Dean,” he reassures him, “it wasn’t real.”

Dean recoils sharply, glaring at Castiel with wide, wild eyes, damp with tears, livid with agony, “Fuck’s it matter, Cas? How can you even fucking look at me? You know how many souls I did that to? How many I—,” he inhales sharply through his nose, “You think I wouldn’t have done the same to you if I’d had the chance? Think I wouldn’t have trussed you up like a fucking deer, and gutted you like a fucking prize?” he spits, venomously. 

Dean wants Castiel to recoil from him; he wants to be shunned, punished, exiled. Dean wants Castiel to hold him contempt; he’s trying to provoke him, and Castiel feels himself straighten at the challenge. He is angry.

“I can look at you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, shoulders square, eyes bright, voice even, “Because you are not what hell made you. I do not see a demon when I look at you, Dean. I see a man, who sacrificed his soul to damnation out of love for his brother; I see a man who rebelled against heaven for the good of humanity; I see someone who has suffered deeply, but who loves more fully and against more odds than any human I have encountered; I see…I see a man who took in a fallen angel—who has committed his own fair share of sins, against god and man, against you…who took in that fallen angel and cared for him, helpless and hopeless though he may be, because you are a good person, Dean.”

Dean winces against each sentence, as if they were blows, as if Castiel were raining down upon him with heaven’s might and righteousness; as if it were more painful for Dean to see the beauty of his soul than its darkness.

“Dean,” Castiel commands, softly, “look at me.”

Dean hesitates, resolutely looks away.

“Look at me, Dean” Castiel repeats and Dean does, face closed and unreadable.

“What happened in hell, what you did, what you became,” he keeps his eyes locked with Dean’s, focused, close, “will likely haunt you for the rest of your life...” unbidden the hand that had rested upon Dean’s forearm travels, to brush gently against Dean’s temple, as if he would brush those memories and their associated pain away, “If I could spare you that…” he shakes his head, he cannot dwell; Dean’s skin is warm beneath his fingertips, blessedly alive and that is what matters, “but it does not define you, Dean…you have to learn to forgive yourself.”

“I almost stabbed you in my sleep tonight, Cas.”

“And I almost stabbed you in the stomach a month ago.”

“That’s not the same.”

“I hardly think it’s different.”

“You were out of it.”

“So were you,” Castiel scowls, “you’re willing to forgive me for the same infraction, but not yourself.”

“It’s different,” Dean insists, stubbornly, and Castiel is quite certain that Dean’s obduracy is both his most frustrating and endearing quality, and the simultaneous feeling of wanting to both kiss him yet throttle him is unfortunately becoming a standard, enveloping conflict of Castiel’s life. He rolls his eyes, which he finds useful in bleeding off the tension brought on by such internal struggle. 

“It’s not,” Castiel insists.

“I could have hurt you.”

“I may be human, but you’re greatly overestimating your abilities if you think that you could mortally wound me while half asleep.”

That somehow shakes Dean out of his obstinacy, and he blinks, startled.

“You didn’t hurt me, Dean,” Castiel says, quietly, honestly, “I’m right here,” fingers warm against Dean’s cheek, hand firm against his shoulder, as if ready to pull Dean, once more, from perdition, “this is real.”

Dean grasps Castiel’s wrist, and for a moment, Castiel thinks that Dean will push him away, that Castiel overstepped his bounds, that he did something wrong, something to upset and worsen the situation, but Dean’s hand is gentle against Castiel’s skin, as if making sure that he is, in fact, real and not a phantasm designed to torture or be tortured. Castiel waits, stays still, and then somehow, suddenly, Dean responds, like a drowning man, desperate, holding on to Castiel’s wrist as if it’s the only tether he has to life, to humanity, to himself. 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean whispers, rough and desperate in the darkness, pain in every syllable. 

“You didn’t do anything, Dean,” Castiel reminds him, softly.

“I’m just…I’m sorry,” he half gasps, half sobs. 

Castiel realizes, as Dean slumps forward, shaking slightly, penitent, pained, that Dean is not apologizing for what he did to Castiel in his dreams, or what he might have done in his moments before waking. He’s apologizing for the sins he committed in hell, for the brutality that he exacted while in the Pit, while on Earth. Castiel is no longer an angel; he is not a priest, he is not sanctified with the role of a confessor; he has no power to absolve. Perhaps that is not what Dean needs. He does not need the angel Castiel to forgive him with the might of heaven at his back, he needs human Castiel, who knows pain and suffering, who has made wrong choices and feels their reverberations through time. He needs human Castiel, who saw him in hell and yet, somehow, still sees something in Dean worth saving; he needs human Castiel to listen to his sorrow, to hear it and acknowledge it, and, in that moment, Castiel feels more power and more responsibility in his humanity than he ever had in his divinity.

“I know,” he replies, and Dean folds against his chest, a warm weight against his shoulder, Castiel’s arms wrapping once more around his back, holding him safe, holding him close, unable to suppress the sensation that Dean seems to fit almost perfectly against his beating heart. 

“I know, Dean,” he repeats.

It’s a few moment before Dean is calm again, his breathing even, and Castiel’s shirt is damp with tears, snot, and sweat. He notices, but he doesn’t particularly care. Dean wipes at his face, exhausted, but somehow lighter than when Castiel found him. 

Castiel isn’t sure what to do; he’s never done this before, never comforted in this form, as a creature of flesh and blood. He doesn’t know what he ought to do, though, usually, were the situation reversed, this is the point at which Sam and Dean would offer to leave, to allow Castiel moments to recover from his fear and embarrassment, to fall into a fitful exhausted sleep, to suffer the rest of the night.

It’s the first time, since coming upon Dean’s sleeping form, that Castiel has not known what to do, has doubted himself and his instincts; because his instincts…his instincts rally for him to wrap his body around Dean’s and never let him go, to pull Dean as close to himself as possible until their flesh becomes one; to use teeth and tongue and mouth and hands and every tool at his disposal until Dean is unburdened, at peace, happy; but those instincts, they cannot be trusted, they cannot be allowed; they are overwhelming and new and potent; they are impossible…so Castiel hesitates, unsure.

“Would you, ah, like me to leave you to sleep now?”

Dean looks at Castiel in such a way then, that Castiel can see the boy he once was within the man he grew to be; there is something young and wistful in his eyes, something tempered with the type sorrow and longing only adulthood can bring.

“I could also, ah, stay if you’d like,” Castiel’s mouth is dry; the words tumble out of him unbidden.

The pain in Dean’s eyes softens, though he glances away briefly, and rubs at the back of his neck, “You don’t mind?”

Castiel’s jaw clenches, “I don’t.”

Dean reaches out a hand, and takes Castiel’s, tugging him closer. Castiel feels a constriction, a warmth in his abdomen, a uptick in his heartbeat at the touch of Dean’s skin against his own, at Dean reaching for him, wanting him.

Dean settles against Castiel’s chest, and Castiel rests his hand against Dean’s shoulder, holding him protectively, gently. He is overwhelmed by the strength of his feelings: love, fear, awe, sorrow, inadequacy, pride, happiness, they mix and weave and jumble inside of him, and he pulls Dean closer.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s collarbone, and the sensation of his breath against Castiel’s skin sends a shiver running down his spine; it is not unpleasant, but it is also not the time; Castiel breathes through the sensation, around it. 

“I know,” Castiel whispers.

He can feel Dean’s smile, tired though it may be, in his voice, “You almost Han Solo-ed me there, Cas.”

Castiel frowns at the ceiling, “I don’t know what that means.”

Dean’s low rumble of laughter is the most beautiful sound Castiel has ever heard, he’s almost certain. 

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Dean mumbles.

“I look forward to it,” Castiel whispers, feeling warm and sleepy, pillowed by Dean, weighted by him, grounded and safe, secure in Dean’s proximity, in his life; reassured by each inhale and exhale that Dean is here with him, safe and well (as well as can be expected). Castiel feels oddly content; their inhales and exhales begin to elongate together; their hearts begin to beat in time, and Castiel smiles, holds more firmly to Dean, tucks him against his chest.

“Good night, Dean.”

“’Night, Cas.”

Castiel traces the sigils for love and protection against Dean’s side; Dean squirms closer, hand warm and possessive against Castiel’s ribs.

Home, Castiel thinks before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, so first of all thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and encouraged this story. You all mean the world to me, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your support and continued patience. This chapter is later than expected for a few reasons one being real life, two being Castiel taking his sweet time telling me what was up, and three being that Season 9 is makes me dramatically question my characters' OOCness (I think the writers are giving me a complex, along with the rest of the fandom I'm sure). Anyway, thank you for your patience, you should be pleased to know that the next chapter is already a third of the way done, so it shouldn't be too long. I would love to hear what you think of this latest installment!
> 
> all my love till next time
> 
> PS I will get back to any comments from the last chapter ASAP.

**Author's Note:**

> So, welcome to the first chapter of this story. Just a few points of clarification: I really wanted to write a fallen/human Cas fic, and a domestic sort of AU. I started with A Very Supernatural Thanksgiving and All Is Calm, All is Bright, but this is the story of the months before those fics take place, when Cas first falls and how that adjustment period works for everyone. This is canon through to Swan Song, but goes AU after that. Dean doesn't stay with Lisa for a full year, just a few weeks, and he's in touch with Cas during and after that (see Break), when he goes back to hunting. He finds Sam earlier and they manage to get his soul back sooner. Cas is still in a civil war with Raphael, but he doesn't make a deal with Crowley and the fight in heaven has been draining to him. And he is in touch with Dean and relatively open about what's going on. In the issue of full disclosure, Season 6 drives me insane and I really can't handle the anguish it causes me, so basically I'm discarding it for the purposes of this story.  
> All that being said, THANK YOU FOR READING, I hope that you stick around as this story continues. Though the first chapter is from Sam's POV, the whole story won't be. It's likely going to be primarily from Dean's perspective, but will switch off to Cas and Sam every few chapters.  
> I would really love to hear what you think so far. More to come soon!


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